Death Word
by the mythologist
Summary: Murdoch and co. hunt down Toronto's newest sequential killer. The race is on, but can they catch the sexually motivated murderer before he captures one of their own? Meanwhile, Henry and George struggle with feelings; William and Julia explore their sexual boundaries; Emily is a bit too excited about illicit workplace romances, and Brackenreid just wants his scotch.
1. Chapter 1

**Death Word**

* * *

 **Story Notes:** AU set in S8, post-wedding. No Edna/Simon. (No hating, I like them just fine. Just not in this story.)

Also, this and Hannibal are the only shows I've ever watched with any element of crime scene investigation, so be prepared for me just straight up making shit up.

Lastly - I have a deep respect and appreciation for BDSM. I may not always use correct terminology in this fic, but I'm unsure how such terms would have been presented back in 1902ish. I've tried to incorporate the open-mindedness (and at times, wide-eyed curiosity) from the show in dealing with new things. Please forgive me if I stumble!

* * *

 **Chapter 1**

 **Where the infamous Cousin Higgins makes an appearance and while proving useful to the investigation, manages to accidentally drive a wedge between Henry and George. There is also a sequential killer.**

* * *

Henry Higgins had nothing against his cousin, and certainly nothing against station house four, but he was quickly finding that he deeply disliked those two variables coming together.

"And you're sure Thomas Higgins will be able to provide valuable insight for the...criminal profile you're compiling?" Detective Murdoch's brows drew in as he asked his wife. Clearly he was unsure whether they were proceeding in the correct direction. Not for the first time, Henry found himself in complete agreement with him.

While Detective Murdoch was considering the investigation, his own reservations were personal, however. His cousin Tom was a good man to be sure, but Henry wasn't altogether enthusiastic about bringing him into work. What if Tom flirted with someone? Worse, what if he made entirely unwarranted observations about Henry's friendship with-

Dr. Ogden - Murdoch, now - sighed, interrupting Henry's thoughts. "I believe he might, William. The latest victim upsets the previous pattern of this sequential killer, and we need a more informed opinion as to where that leaves us. And as we've frightened away all our other leads, Henry's cousin seems to be the best bet."

Detective Murdoch was not an expressive man, but after having worked with the man for over a decade, Henry thought he might not be looking forward to the coming interview. "Well then," he allowed. "We'll interview him as a consultant and see what he can tell us about our sequential killer." He glanced down at Henry, who was trying his hardest not to imagine Tom and the admittedly handsome Detective Murdoch in a room together. He could only pray his flirtatious cousin behaved himself for once. "Would you like to sit in, Henry? Would it reassure him?"

Henry winced. "That's quite all right, sir. Tom knows he's got nothing to fear from anyone in station house four. About _that_ at least. I'm sure he'll be fine without me holding his hand."

Dr. Ogden- _Murdoch_ smiled down at him warmly. "Just know it is an option, Henry. We need his help, and if your presence would allow him to speak more freely…"

Henry groaned. "Trust me, Doctor. He'll need no help doing _that."_

Murdoch hummed abstractedly, attention already focused back on his chalkboard. On it were the names of the three victims of Toronto's newest sequential killer. The first had been Mr. Rolf Schmidt, an immigrant german dockworker who had been found 3 days ago, suffering from lacerations, bruising, signs of strangulation and deeply-grooved bite marks before he had been killed by a knife to the heart. Painted on his abdomen in his own blood had been the word _London._

For nearly two days Murdoch and George had traveled down the roads that implied, finding little of the man's life and expecting Britain's capital to be a clue. Yet 26 hours ago the next victim had been found and the investigation had taken a new turn. Mr. Kevin Sawyer's injuries were similar - and the mode of death identical - while forensic evidence pointed to the same perpetrator. The word on his stomach had been _pinecone._

Nothing tied the two men together in their habits, work, or mutual acquaintances. All save the killer, his penchant for wordplay, and the fact that the two men had been repeatedly sodomized before their demise.

They had continued on assuming the killer to be a homosexual, and guessed that he was targeting men who shared that inclination, or simply triggered his interest. Yet only 10 hours ago the latest victim had been found, Miss Evelyn Hadyn. She too fit the killer's modus operandi, replete with the evidence of internal sexual violence, biting, savagery, and a word of her own: _black._

Unlike the two men, however, _black_ had not only been scrawled across her torso, but also on a blank business card found amongst her effects. Yet rather than illuminating the meaning or purpose of it, it raised more questions. How had she received the card? Had Miss Haydn known her attacker? Had there been some sort of agreement in place? Or was it simply another part of the killer's flair that they hadn't caught yet with the previous two victims?

The question of the card aside, Dr. Ogden's entire profile had to be adjusted to fit this new victim. She needed advice. And as Henry's infamous cousin was one of the few homosexuals in Toronto who would be caught dead within the station house walls, he had been invited in.

" _London, pinecone, black,"_ the detective muttered, trying to find a way to fit the clues together. "How are all the victims connected? Could the words be some sort of message? "

"Sir? Doctor?" All three turned to face Jackson, framed in the doorway. He wore an apologetic expression which deepened when his gaze fell on Henry. "George is back with Mr. Higgins. They're waiting for you out in the pen."

Murdoch nodded, "Thank you, Jackson. We'll be right there."

"Sir," Jackson nodded, before glancing at Henry and outright wincing.

Henry's eyes narrowed. What did _that_ mean? What had his cousin done now? He charged out after Jackson, leaving the Murdochs to follow in his wake. He saw the cause of Jackson's consternation immediately. At the far end of the pen was Tom - tall, strong, handsome Tom, who had the girls swooning over him without even wanting them to - and next to him, looking rather beleaguered, was George.

"Now, if you could just come right this way, sir…" George was doing his best to deliver him to the detective's door, but Tom was having none of it.

"Come now, George," Tom said, giving him a flirtatious grin. "We're friends, aren't we? Can't you tell me what this is all about?" His tone turned mischievous. "Our little Henry didn't get into trouble did he?"

Henry growled and both George and Tom noticed him at the same moment. "Higgins!" George called out in unmistakable relief, but the momentary animation died immediately, as if George had just remembered something sombre. "I was just escorting your cousin to the detective."

"I noticed," Henry ground out. "Come on, Tom. This way."

He needn't have bothered. Detective Murdoch and Dr. Ogden-Murdoch stepped up just then, and Henry could only be thankful that the inspector was out meeting with the chief constable about some administrative business, because at the sight of the two of them Tom practically simpered.

He stuck out a hand, smiling the broad Higgins smile. " _You_ must be Detective Murdoch! And is this the lovely Dr. Ogden? It is an _honor_ to meet you both at last - I've heard so much about you."

Henry sighed, and across their joined hands his gaze met George's. George had a peculiar look on his face, as if he had just heard something he didn't much care for. Henry's eyebrows quirked into a question, but George's expression simply grew darker before he shook his head.

Ice pooled in the pit of Henry's stomach. His friend looked positively upset, whereas he had been fine just this morning. What could have happened in the last hour to change his mood?

 _Thomas Edward Higgins,_ that was what. Or who, rather. And as soon as he got out of that interrogation room, Henry was going to give him a piece of his mind. It was one thing to be friendly with Henry's best friend. George was a good man, open-minded and barely able to judge the most hardened criminals, let alone Henry's cousin. Yet if he had done something to upset George, or perhaps, even _said_ something upsetting…

Piece of his mind indeed, Henry reassured himself. In English _and_ in French.

Yet his plans would have to wait. Murdoch turned back to them and gave orders in his soft-spoken manner. "George, I need you and Jackson to check with Mr. Schmidt and Mr. Sawyer's landlords, make sure they didn't pick up any cards with either London or pinecone written on them. Henry, you're on fingermark duty. Check the markings on all three bodies to all known sexual deviants in the collection."

And on top of everything, fingermark duty. Could the day go any worse? Apparently so, for even before Henry had murmured _sir,_ George turned and stalked off, grabbing Jackson by the shoulder as he went. Henry watched him go with raised eyebrows, and even Murdoch looked a little confused.

" _English_ and _French,"_ Henry fumed under his breath, as he sat down at his desk with a thick sheaf of fingermark sheets. " _In public. At length."_

…

…

…

…

...

Thomas Higgins set down the pictures with a queasy expression on his face. For a moment, William worried that he might be ill over the interrogation table. But the moment passed when Mr. Higgins swallowed thickly and gave a quirky smile, making him look more like Henry than he had since entering the station house.

"Well," he began. "I'm not sure how I can help, but if I can do anything to help put this beast away, I'll do it."

William shifted in his seat before he pointed to the three photographs in front of him. "Do you recognize any of them?"

Mr. Higgins shook his head. "I'm sorry, detective."

"And are any of the names familiar?"

"No. Should they be?"

William's mouth tightened. "We're looking into the possibility that any or all of them may have been…" He hesitated, struggling past the familiarity of the word _sodomite. "_...homosexuals. We were hoping you might be able to prove or disprove this theory."

Thomas Higgins looked down again at the pictures, just of their faces, bodies covered primly with a mortuary cloth. "I'm sorry detective," he said again. "They may run in very different circles than my own, but I've never heard nor seen any of them. Is there a reason you suspect them to be homosexuals?"

William shared a look with his wife. "We have reason to suspect their killer may be. We're trying to determine how he selects his victims."

Julia smiled reassuringly before she leaned over the table, slender fingers tapping at the picture of Mr. Schmidt. "What we've called you in for is advice. All three victims have been...sexually abused, and while a homosexual male fits the profile for the first two victims, it is somewhat skewed by the inclusion of Miss Haydn. Any information you might be able to share would help us in drawing a more accurate description of the killer, allowing us to catch him more quickly."

Mr. Higgins fell silent. William had seen that exact look of inner contemplation too many times to count, and laid his hand over Julia's, urging her to hold her silence for just a moment. Higgins had already suffered some backlash from acting as an informant before, years ago when William had solved the murder of Wendell Merrick. Now he had to gauge whether or not whatever information he held might be worth confessing in light of this sequential killer and his morbid tastes.

Finally, the young man looked up. "I said I would help and I will. What is it that you need to know?"

Julia lined all three of the victims pictures in a row. "How likely is it that the same man perpetrated all these crimes? That is to say, how likely is it that he desires both men _and_ women?"

Higgins considered this. "If you're sure the violence was perpetrated by the same man, then I would say quite likely. Sexuality is not set in stone, Doctor. While you and I exclusively like men - and the detective women - I know of some who favor both, in varying degrees."

She leaned forward, interested. "What do you mean?"

"Some prefer one gender over the other, but are willing to make do with what is socially acceptable. Others seem to favor them both equally." The young man weighed his hands up and down, like balances on a scale. "It's fluid, doctor. I believe there is no tried and true method in attraction."

William leaned forward. "And for those who favor both equally...are they able to desire both so strongly as to constitute a drive to murder?"

Higgins frowned. "Perhaps. Off the top of my head, I can think of one that largely prefers women, perhaps...90% of the time. For the most part men do not move him. Yet when he meets a male in that 10%, he is just as strongly attracted to him as he is to women. If your killer was similar, I could see passion as being a driving force for both his male and female victims...but there may be a percentile difference in the gender of those he selects."

Julia nodded, fascinated. William was less so, especially as it opened up the pool of suspects in his murder investigation. Still, at least he had something specific. This killer favored both men and women, and the killings were still sexually motivated.

On impulse, he flipped open his portfolio and removed one more photograph. He slid it in front of Higgins and asked, "And is there anything you can make of this?"

The young man's recoil was genuine, and William noted it as keenly as if the man were a suspect. For a moment he once again feared for his investigation table, but the man displayed some of the Higgins stiff upper lip when he brought his attention back down to the photograph and looked more closely.

It was the picture of Evelyn Haydn in her entirety, lying naked on the mortuary table. Her bruising and lacerations were thrown in sharp relief of her pale skin. "Poor girl," Higgins murmured as he forced himself to look. He swallowed thickly when he looked away. "It would appear she had been shackled, detective. Around her neck as well. Is that common?"

"No," William replied. "And from the anterior imprint it looks as if it were a collar. Have you heard of such a thing being used in a sexual way?"

From the way Higgins stilled, he imagined so. He glanced back down at the photograph, grimacing. Then, slowly he admitted, "Perhaps I have. There was...a rumor. From years ago, in a club I no longer frequent. Something about a European _gentleman_ who had rather...specific tastes. I don't remember his name, but I do recall some of the specifics of it. He was interested in some form of sexual servitude, and I do believe I'd heard something about him _wearing_ a collar. Ah...something about a method of control? Manipulation? Apparently there was a manner of pain involved as well, for punishment and pleasure." He shook his head. "It was all too sordid for me, detective. And for...any partners I may have had at the time. I remember wondering if the practice was largely European? I'm sorry that I can't recall it more clearly…"

This sexual practice being European might connect Rolf Schmidt to the murders and may provide a clue for the mysterious word left on his chest. If he were lucky, it may just provide a connection to both Kevin Sawyer, and-

Inspiration dawned. "And is this practice common only among men? Or do women favor it as well?" William leaned across the table in his excitement, practically seeing the connection form in front of him.

Mr. Higgins leaned back a little at the detective's intensity. "I would imagine it's not bound to either gender, detective. But I reiterate, I don't know anyone who pursues that kind of...play."

William leaned back, eager to be on the move. "Thank you, Mr. Higgins. You've been most helpful. Julia, do you need me for anything more?"

His wife shook her head, smiling a little at his impatience.

"Then please excuse me. The room is yours as long as you both need." With that he made his way out the door, mind whirling with new branches to investigate.

As he left he heard Julia ask in a voice that betrayed keen interest, "Now, could you possibly tell me more about your opinions on sexual fluidity…?"

…

…

…

…

…

It was not turning out to be his best day, oh no, that was for certain. Sequential killer aside, this muck up was turning out to be a little like the time he had accidentally told Aunt Nettle that Aunt Iris had taken one of her gentleman callers, but only to knock Aunt Petunia out of the running for the house's best earner for the month.

Aunt Petunia had not been amused, and neither had the gentleman caller.

What he meant to say about all this was that murder aside, he was embroiled in a rather uncomfortable situation. Worst was, he didn't quite know who he most identified with in this situation - Nettle, Petunia, or maybe even the reverend himself who'd had to sort out the whole mess with a bottle of altar wine and Aunt Daisy's prize pig.

One thing he knew for certain, however, was that the part of Aunt Iris was currently being played by none other than Henry Higgins, and perhaps George was Aunt Nettle after all, because the thought of his _best friend's_ betrayal made him madder than a cat in a windstorm, as Aunt Marigold liked to say. Henry knew better! And even if he didn't, he should have guessed better!

Unless Thomas Higgins had been lying to him. But why would he? He had mentioned it in such an offhand manner that George had almost not even caught it, what with it being amidst all of Thomas's shameless flirting. At the time he had been too shocked to say anything at all. But the grim expression on Henry's face had brought it all back, and George didn't know what to do. Clearly he couldn't make a scene in the middle of a murder investigation and so he had let the moment pass. But the idea of Henry doing _that_ made his guts churn...

He shook his head. Right. They needed to talk this out. Clear the air, and make all as right as rain, so to speak. George wasn't the biggest fan of rain, but he understood the power of expression. So he slammed his hands down onto the desk and stood abruptly, startling Henry to drop the same fingermark sheet he'd been examining for the last five minutes.

"Higgins! If you have a moment, I'd like a word."

Henry glanced up, nervousness flashing across his face. "About what, George?"

George belatedly realized that this might not be the proper venue for the projected conversation, and glanced back toward the locker room. "In private, please."

Henry glanced over at the locker rooms, paling. "I'm not sure about this, George. We're on duty, and the inspector's due back any minute now."

George frowned. Henry's reluctance wasn't helping matters. Neither was his guilty evasion! "We're due for lunch anyway. Come _on,_ Higgins." When Henry still didn't move, just sat there defiantly with his shoulders hunched, George continued. "Or would you like me to clear the air here in the middle of the pen?"

Henry sighed. "No," he murmured, and then continued on with something that sounded suspiciously like _I'd rather not clear the air at all._

George sniffed. Well! That was not the correct attitude to take _at all,_ and only made the coming conversation even more imperative! He strode off toward the locker room, only glancing back to check that Henry was indeed following after him.

He wasted no time when the two of them reached the empty locker room. "So I hear you have something to tell me, Henry Higgins."

Whereas Henry had turned pale before, now his face turned to stone. For a moment George was struck at the total lack of expression on his face, and wondered if he should have begun a bit more gently. Then his anger flared and he stiffened, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

"Well?" He prodded none too gently. "Is there something you'd like to say?"

Henry glanced away, his jaw set tightly. "I don't know what Tom told you, but-"

"Oh, don't you?" George broke in. "Because I can only think of one thing you've done that might make me this angry!"

Henry swallowed, adam's apple bobbing. "I'm sorry if I... _inconvenienced_ you, but rest assured that I told him that in _confidence_ , in the understanding I'd never talk about it again. I-"

"Inconvenienced?" George's brows drew in. "You betrayed me! Although I suppose you might have inconvenienced Dr. Grace, I cannot speak for her. But betrayal, Higgins! She'd been my _girl!_ "

"Dr. Grace? What are-" Henry glanced back at him with a confused expression before he cut himself off. He glanced down, and when he looked back up he had adopted a knowing, somewhat resigned expression. "This is about Dr. Grace. Tom told you about how I asked her to the agricultural fair, didn't he."

There was something odd about the way Henry replied, but George was too wound up to spot it. "He told me you'd been sweet on her, is what he said. Your best friend's girl, Henry Higgins! How could you?"

Henry shook his head, breathing heavily. "It was after you two were done, George! I didn't make a move until after you assured me you two were over. I _promise._ I wouldn't do that to you, you have to know that!"

"Well, I thought I knew that," George muttered. "But apparently I don't. And neither do I know Emily, for she didn't breathe a word of this either!"

Henry huffed in frustration. "There was no word to breathe, George! She declined rather forcefully, and that was that. Nothing happened so there was nothing to tell."

George could see it so clearly. Henry, hat in hand, going down to the morgue. He would have been nervous, grinning at all the wrong moments, yet oh so earnest in his delivery. Emily behind the mortuary table, shocked at the invitation, half-believing it to be a joke. She would have spoken harshly, and George knew just how harsh that could be. Henry would have walked off, heart bruised.

And then what? He had come back to their desks and said nothing? He had sat right across from George, _his best friend_ and behaved as if nothing had happened for the rest of the day? The week? The month? How long had it even taken Henry to get over his crush on Emily? Had it taken him longer than George? Had he cried when he went home that night, alone in his one-room apartment in that old boardinghouse?

The mental image caused anger and some unidentifiable hurt to flare up in him, and before George could examine the cause of it, he snapped, "I don't think I know you anymore, Higgins. I just… I mean to say…" Henry's expression shifted into stubborn disbelief, and George found his backbone. "Friendship suspended until further notice, is what I mean to say!"

Henry lifted his chin, his light eyes narrowing. "Yeah, well. Let's see if I still want to be friends with _you_ when you stop being such an idiot, George Crabtree!"

George drew up in pure, unmitigated anger, just as his Aunt Begonia had during the church fair where one of the other parishioners had attempted to make insinuations about her, a horse, and a bottle of Newfoundland rum. But before he could unleash what would have undoubtedly have been a scathing reply, Jackson stuck his head into the locker room.

"Finish your love spat later, lads - there's been a robbery down at the Westside bank. Henry, you're with Brackenreid. George, you're to go with Murdoch. He's got an idea about the killer."

Henry stormed off without another word, nor even a backwards glance at George. George scowled, but the thought of facing Henry's anger later - sure to be even worse when time had allowed it to escalate - made his stomach twist into knots. Now, he suspected he felt like Aunt Briony during the Great Lettuce Debacle, when she had just shook her head and shut the door to to the kitchen, washing dishes until she was sure she was done crying.

He felt like crying a little himself, now that he thought of it…

...

...

...

...

...

 **So, rather than finish any of the stories I should be finishing, I spent 4 days and powered through 30K (and counting) of Murdoch Mysteries fanfic. This is after taking about 2 weeks to watch 8 whole seasons. Good Lord that show is charming, and I love everyone on it. The end.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: (NSFW)**

 **Where both Inspector Brackenreid and George try very hard to communicate with minimal success. Murdoch and Henry are focused on other things entirely, while Julia tries hard to get work done but is most deliciously foiled.**

* * *

Henry knew he wasn't at his best when he assisted the inspector during his bank robbery interviews, but he thought he did well enough. The case was fairly open and shut - two men had recognized the robber, a drunk from down at the docks. He was a well-known hooligan, and Brackenreid knew two taverns he was wont to visit, as well as an old boarding house he'd been known to rent a room in. No one had been injured, and there were no bodies to transport to the morgue. So after assuring the bank manager that the money would be returned promptly, the matter was quickly resolved by dispatching a trio of constables after the robber, leaving Henry to walk back to the station with the inspector.

They were about halfway home when Brackenreid said, apropos of absolutely nothing at all, "It's a poor thing for a man to fight with his best friend, don't you think, Higgins?"

Henry tensed. "Generally speaking, yes, sir."

Brackenreid gave him one of those inscrutable glances. "Even if the man in question can be a bit of a daft git sometimes, yeah?"

Henry tried to smile, but it felt awkward on his face. "If you say so, sir."

Another moment of quiet, wherein Henry wished that something - anything - might happen so that this conversation wouldn't be continued.

Finally the inspector let loose. "Oh, bollocks. Higgins, I don't want to know what you and Crabtree are on about now, but if a man can't walk into his own bleeding locker room because his constables are having a bloody lover's tiff in there, then it's a problem. Now, who started it?"

Henry grit his teeth. "It's not that simple, sir."

"Of course it bloody well is! Now _who started it?"_

 _My cousin,_ Henry wanted to say. _With his big, fat mouth._ But even he knew that it was more correct to say… "Me, sir. Apparently."

"Huh." Brackenreid pulled back, looking surprised. "Hadn't expected that. Thought it would be Crabtree for sure. Well, that just means that if he isn't going to be a big enough man to end it then you are, Higgins. Today. When we get back."

Henry's jaw tightened. If he wasn't careful, he was going to have a tension headache in short order. But there was little he could do. He was still so angry - at George, at Tom, at himself. He had been an idiot, going after Dr. Grace. But he had his reasons, and they were reasons he wasn't going to share.

Without sharing them, however, he didn't know how to make George forgive him. Besides, he was still so angry that he wasn't sure he _wanted_ him to. Who was George to tell him who to care for? Especially when this whole mess was all his fault in the first place! There was no one to blame but George Crabtree and his stupid, goofy smile, his stupid Newfoundland accent, and his stupid big heart that he gave to any pretty girl who gave him so much as the time of day-

Henry missed a step and nearly toppled face first to the ground, but Brackenreid caught his arm, hoisting him back. "Steady on," the inspector muttered. "It can't be as serious as all that. You boys are as close as brothers, and all brothers have their fights. It'll clear over soon enough, especially if you man up and apologize sooner than later."

Henry didn't think his stumble merited Brackenreid's look of concern, but that was what he received in full force. He wondered what the inspector's expression would be if he had any idea what Henry felt about the idea of George and brotherhood, and the uneasy cringe in his stomach at the thought of George agreeing with the inspector.

 _You're never going to have what you want, Henry,_ he chastised himself. First in English, and then in French, just to drive the point home. _But if you don't get over yourself now, you'll lose more than you can stand to._

"I understand, sir," he said just as the station house came into view. "I'll make it right."

The inspector clapped him on the shoulder. "Good on you, bugalugs. Now, let's see if Murdoch has made any progress with the sequential killer…"

…

…

…

…

…

Halfway across town, William had _not_ made much progress with the sequential killer. He had thought he'd been onto something, but had come up short. Thomas Higgins had provided the name of the old club he had frequented, but when he and George had made enquiries, they had learned that it was not only Higgins that had eschewed the European's sexual practices. The entirety of the club had done so, and the proprietor had disdainfully told him he had _no_ idea where such a man could have found like-minded practitioners.

The only positive had been that Rolf Schmidt had been positively identified as the European in question. The doorman _and_ the owner of the club had recognized him by his accent, hooked nose, and his persistent manner. It had been he who had come to the club looking for those who may share in his proclivities, almost three years ago. William supposed that he had eventually found such a partner. But where? When? How?

And was it inevitable that such an arrangement had led to his demise?

Neither had there been any luck in trying to tie Kevin Sawyer or Evelyn Haydn to this bondage play, as George kept referring to it. As far as their families, friends, loved ones and neighbors could tell, at least. Miss Haydn had been courting Mr. Joseph Kleppens, a rather handsome young man - according to her landlady - who had reported her missing four days ago, and had haunted the station ever since merely for word of her. Mr. Sawyer was similarly engaged to a young lady who was in the upper echelons of their church group, and had broken down into a torrent of tears when Mr. Sawyer's body had been identified.

When asked if any past lovers might have figured in this, she had cried all the harder. _The had been pure,_ she had assured him. _They had not even kissed each other - they had been saving that for their wedding day._

Neither seemed to be a likely candidate in such a perverse sexual practice, although William knew himself to be a poor judge of this. Julia was always reminding him that what he considered perverse might not truly be so. His Roman Catholic upbringing left him somewhat out of the modern loop at times, and he relied on her to balance him, keep him from imposing his views on everyone else.

He relied on her for so much more, of course. But to let himself reflect on all the ways which he needed her would neither be conducive to this case, nor to the fit of his trousers.

 _The truth is what matters most,_ he told himself, shaking off the lingering, pervasive questions of what it might be like to share an evening of bondage play with Julia. There might be time for that later, if he determined it had not contributed to making a murderer. _Just the truth. And I will find it._

"George," he asked suddenly in an effort to wrest his thoughts back on the proper track. "What did you think about...George, are you listening? _George!_ "

"Huh? Sir?" George startled, nearly knocking his constable's cap from his head. At William's chastising look, he apologized. "Sir, I'm so sorry. I know I should be paying attention, but I keep getting so distracted. I apologize, sir, I won't let it happen again."

William sighed. "I know some of the details surrounding the case may be somewhat salacious, George, but-"

"But that's not what has me so distracted, sir," George interrupted. "And actually, if it's already the topic of discussion, I have a question for you related to it. If you wouldn't mind."

Seeing as how William's own thoughts were headed in circles, he supposed there was no harm in indulging George. Besides, it was a long walk back to the station, and George had technically gone off duty almost an hour ago.

He had too, now that he thought of it. Julia had probably long since eaten dinner, unless she had gotten caught up in her profile of the criminal… "Ask away," he invited. "I suppose it wouldn't hurt to set aside the matter of the killer for a brief while."

"Very good sir," George agreed. "Actually, this question may be a bit of a two-parter."

"Let's not get too carried away, George…"

George shot him a befuddled expression, as if getting carried away was the last thing he'd ever done. William sighed and gestured for him to continue.

"Well, like I was saying, sir. Without meaning to pry, was there ever a point where you...well...where you felt badly for the late Mr. Garland? Before he was killed, I mean. Then I suppose we all did."

William gave George a look of oft-used incredulity. "Felt badly for him? In what way?"

George sighed deeply as he scuffled his shoe against the ground, obviously searching for the right words. "I don't exactly know, sir. But felt as if he should have done or known better...or maybe even that he _deserved_ better…?" He trailed off, words mumbling together as he considered exactly what he had just said.

Now William paused, as close to affronted as he could be in a non-perilous situation. "Deserved better? Than _Julia?"_ He shook his head, reining back his anger at George's woebegone expression. "No, George. I never pitied Mr. Garland for...spending time with Julia."

George threw down his hands to his sides. "Then why am I so upset, sir? Have I finally done it? Just as the inspector always says?"

If William had been confused before, now he was even more so. Thankfully, he'd had years of experience at unravelling his best constable's nonsense, and so it was with surety that he asked, "Done what, George?"

"Gone crackers!"

William breathed deeply, praying for calm. If the Lord did not know who George Crabtree was by the time he breached the gates, it was not for William Murdoch's lack of exasperation. "George. Calm down, and tell me why you are upset. Take it slowly. Try to make sense."

The younger man's mouth flattened into a comical line as he considered. He gesticulated a few times, as if trying to will the words forth. Finally, after the men had walked a full block, he found a way of beginning.

"Sir, let me lay before you a hypothetical situation. A what-if scenario, if you will. Let's take one man, Man A, as I shall call him from here on out. And then there's a second man, Man B. Man A and Man B are friends. Good friends. The best of friends, you might say. And they have their scuffles along the way, sir, but nothing unsurmountable. But then enters in a lady, which I shall continue calling Lady, as there is only one of them in the equation. Now, Lady was seeing Man A, but then all ended. But then - but then Man B went in, and asked her out to the agricultural fair! Without telling Man A! Even though they were best friends!"

"George," William warned, knowing when the constable was about to work himself into a lather.

"Sorry, sir. As I was saying. Man B asked Lady out to the fair, but she turned him down. Rather coldly, or so I imagine. So nothing happened between them, but nobody told Man A that nothing happened, and now that I- _he's_ figured it all out, he's rather upset. And not just at Man B, sir. _For_ Man B as well!" George frowned helplessly at William. "And that's the crux of it sir. I just don't understand it. How can Man A be so upset at He- Man B, but also at Lady for turning him down?"

William blinked at him, making quick work of all situation, sifting through George's ridiculousness, and arriving at a neat conclusion. "George, if you feel so badly about your fight with Henry, shouldn't you just resolve it?"

George's eyebrows rose as he adopted a nonchalant expression. "Ah, but I said nothing about Henry, sir. Man A and Man B, I believe I called them."

William's expression turned stern. " _George."_

He huffed. "But sir, I don't understand it-"

The station was in sight and William's patience was just about used up. "Dr. Grace is seeing neither of you - as far as I can tell - and clearly you're more upset about losing Henry's friendship. Can't you just forgive him and move on?"

"Well, yes, sir, but it's the principle of the thing! What if he does it again?"

"Then maybe you should ask him why he did it, and make sure it doesn't happen again. Tell him how...upset it has made you. Talk it out rationally. Heaven knows the two of you never _stop_ talking."

George pouted. "Now, that's unkind, sir. Just because the inspector has to yell at us to be quiet thrice as much as he does with any other constables-"

"Five times as much," William correctly him mildly, just as they walked through the station house constable's entrance.

"Be that as it may, that doesn't mean our conversations have to be _reprimanded._ Nor rational. In fact, Higgins and I talk more nonsense than..."

George continued, but William tuned him out in favor of staring at his wife, standing in the middle of the pen and looking impossibly lovely. Against all the horrors of today she was the balm that soothed his soul, and he couldn't help but smile at her, even when her hair was escaping its tidy bun, there was ink smudging her left cheek, and she wore an unmistakably frazzled air.

For once, George read the mood and trailed off on his own. He may or may not have thanked William for his advice - William certainly grunted his agreement to _something -_ but just then Julia turned and her entire body relaxed at the sight of him, unknitting whatever tension was left in his own body.

"William!" She called out as she strode over to him, holding her oft-used pad of paper. "Oh, I'm so glad I caught you. I've been poring over this profile for hours, and while Mr. Higgins's insight was quite useful, I feel as if I'm running around in circles!" She embraced him and William felt the warmth of her all through him.

"I feel as if I almost have it," she murmured into his ear. "But then it slips away. I may just have to sleep on it."

"Then sleep on it we shall," he agreed, hugging her tighter. He chuckled when he heard her stomach give a quiet rumble. "And perhaps eat on it as well. Shall we?" He stepped away and gave her his arm, glancing back to see that the inspector's office was dark. He'd gone home then, and William would just have to give his report in the morning.

She gave him an arch look, but she practically pulled him from the station house. She must have been hungry indeed, William thought to himself. Then again, he was rather famished himself...

…

…

…

…

...

After dinner and a warm bath, Julia sat back into a straight-backed chair and willed herself not to relax. It was still early, yet after the long day she felt as if it were past midnight. Yet while sleep beckoned she would not succumb, not while her William was still wound up so tightly from the atrocities from this sequential killer.

Currently he was over at their chalkboard, muttering one moment about the probabilities of connection, and the next about the etymology of the words found on the victims. Knowing it would be of no avail to interrupt him, Julia bent her head to her own task - that of deciphering the profile of the killer.

She began with what she knew: _Adult male,_ due to the strength required to hoist the bodies. _Caucasian,_ due to the race of all the recovered victims. _English native,_ as none of the victims spoke French, although he likely had achieved some fluency in German, as well…

 _Murders sexually oriented,_ she continued. _Likely bisexual._ The biting and the semen deposited within and on the bodies had made it immediately apparent that the crimes were sexually driven. Knowing that the killer appreciated both sexes equally was daunting, however. How to catch someone when their range was so broad?

 _By focusing on the details, Julia,_ she counselled herself. _One step at a time._

He had to have started somewhere. Someone must have introduced him to these darker urges. Murder may have come on his own, perhaps as inevitably as it had to James Gillies and his experiments. But what he had done to them while they were alive - bound and gagged them, from Dr. Grace's report, and scarred them by cutting them with knives far too shallowly to kill - might have been learned.

 _Perhaps he had some medical training,_ she realized. Otherwise how would he have known the best way to keep his victims alive? Dr. Grace had reported that Rolf Schmidt appeared to have been kept captive far longer than Kevin Sawyer or Evelyn Haydn, and that suggested that these crimes were not necessarily of passion. They had been planned, well-executed, strung out over a longer period of time. And that pointed to someone of discipline, education, and of training.

Back to the beginning. How had he begun? How would he have selected his first victim, arguably the most important of all, as they were first and so much could go wrong on an initial endeavor?

Warm hands wrapped around her shoulders and she jumped. She opened her eyes to see her husband standing behind her, eyes warm with quiet pleasure. "William," she chastised. "You startled me."

He leaned in to kiss the back of her neck and she shivered. "I'm sorry," he whispered. His hands began kneading her neck and she melted against him.

"Should I make it up to you?" He asked, thumbs digging into the stiff muscles of her shoulder.

Julia moaned in response. Her eyes closed as his hands warmed her, rubbing out the inflamed muscles at her neck, her shoulders, her collarbone. For a time all was quiet and warm, the flame flickering in the hearth as his hands swept all her tension away. She felt lulled in the sea of his unconditional love and affection, the warmth of his body behind her. And the movement of his hands were mesmerizing, the way they would brush against her jawline, dip just below the edging of her chemise, creep along her ribcage to gently cup her breasts…

Julia jolted when his hands closed around her more firmly, the warmth of pressure of his fingers seeping through her thin chemise. Instinctively she leaned forward, craving more of him. For a moment his fingers closed in around a nipple, tugging just so...but just as Julia gasped out his name he released, bringing down his hands down to steady at her waist.

"Should I behave?" He asked quietly, an undercurrent of desire darkening his tone.

"Lord, no!" Julia exclaimed, twisting in her chair. "William, please!"

"As my lady commands," he laughed as she stood, making it far easier for him to grip the bottom of her chemise and slowly raise it over her head and upraised hands. He pulled the cloth away and his eyes darkened as they took her in, standing naked before him. "So beautiful," he whispered, tracing a reverent hand down the curve of her waist. "Julia, you're-"

Needing his touch more than his accolades, Julia threw herself at him, pressing every inch of herself against him as she tilted her head. Their mouths came together hungrily, their passion still new even after all these years of courtship. His arms wrapped around her, hands clutching at her derriere, and against the junction of her legs Julia could feel the proof of his desire straining for her. It made her feel so deliciously weak, and thus she followed without complaint when he backed them into their bedchamber, hastily divesting himself of his own clothes before finally falling back onto the bed.

Once, she might have giggled at the sensation of falling, but for now she simply needed William too much to entertain any other sensation than lust. She broke the kiss to rock her hips against his, making him groan against her mouth. He rocked back and Julia nearly did the same thing. Lord above, he felt so _good_ against her. Inside of her as well! No man had ever, _ever_ felt so perfect when sheathed within her, but William seemed to have been designed for her. Even if, Julia allowed, he was sometimes still a bit hesitant in the bedroom…

His fingers travelled up to her nipples once more and Julia bit back a moan. William's love of foreplay was tremendously stimulating, but tonight she wanted something a bit different. The slickness between her thighs was obvious, and the warmth in her core had only grown more noticeable since the beginning of William's massage. She was ready for him, and she wanted him now. So what might happen if she took him, rather than he take her?

As he played with her breasts, tweaking her nipples with a curiosity that might have bordered on the scientific were it not for that glazed look in his eye, Julia reached down to settle herself just so. Only when she stroked his head against her lower lips did William groan, catching onto her game.

"Julia-" he bit out before she rocked forward, allowing the tip of him to slip inside her.

"Yes, William?" She asked breathily, gauging his reaction to see whether she should continue her plan. "Would you like me to stop?"

"Oh. No, no, don't stop…" He trailed off helplessly, hands falling to her waist as he reflexively jerked his hips, trying to sheathe himself within her.

Yet Julia had lifted herself at just the right moment, leaving him keening. She swallowed back a smirk as she settled back down, shushing him gently. "Relax, William. You made me feel so good, earlier. Now I want to return the favor…"

William groaned and threw his head back as she lowered herself upon him. She slid down to the hilt, catching her breath as she adjusted to the size of him.

"Keep still, my love," Julia whispered. "Tonight I'll do all the work. Just lay back and enjoy it."

William murmured what may have been the beginning of the _Hail Mary_ , and Julia took that as her cue to begin. She began cautiously, rocking atop him almost primly, allowing them both to get used to the change in position. Soon, however, she found the rhythm that had William gasping and a spark of pleasure coiling in her belly. Yet there was still a part of her that wanted to play, and so she found herself augmenting those forceful movements with coy swivels of her hips, switching the patterns back and forth. Finally, when she began to rock in a figure-eight pattern, William could take it no longer.

" _Julia,"_ he ground out, his normally soft voice edged by lust. _"Need you. Oh, Lord-"_ he vaulted himself upwards, nearly dislodging her. Yet he pulled her back down before she could topple off the bed, thrusting upwards harshly enough to make her cry out.

His mouth lowered to her breasts, licking a wet trail until his mouth fastened on a swollen nipple. She moaned as he sucked hungrily, pistoning into her harder than she could ever remember him taking her before. As he feasted upon her, the coil of pleasure intensified until it became a bonfire. Julia was lost in her own pleasure, struggling to bring her hips against his in answering in fury.

" _So good,"_ he mumbled against her when he pulled his mouth away from her nipple, only to bring it to her neck. " _Julia, I love you."_

" _And I you, William,"_ Julia cried, nearly mindless in the pursuit of release. She was so close to the edge, so close to breaking entirely. " _Oh William. William, please…!"_

His mouth clamped at the junction of her neck and shoulder and he sucked hard, just as she had once imagined at the height of Bram Stoker's vampire craze. The frisson of pleasure and pain tumbled her into the arms of her orgasm, and she arched back, crying out as she climaxed. From far away he called out to her as well, and she thought she could almost feel wet heat pump into her, filling her, flooding her…

By the time she had come back to herself, William was lowering her gently down onto the bed so that she could lay against him. Sleepily, she reached out for him, smiling in complete satiation. He leaned down to kiss her, and for a time their mouths moved gently against each other. Not enough to re-stoke their passion, but to reassure: this was their love, its sweetness, its power, its longevity. Never again would anyone come between them. This was their moment, their happiness, their future.

Finally Julia lowered herself to the bed, nestling herself into William's side. As sleep closed in she felt his hand momentarily squeeze her shoulder and she whispered, " _I love you, William."_

She thought he might have whispered back his reply, but in her dreams.

...

...

...

 **Oh, I went there. Sexy times for Canada's most attractive tv couple, good lord.**

 **Hope it was a good for you as it was for them ;)**


	3. Chapter 3

**Not beta'd, my bad**

* * *

 **Chapter 3**

 **The murder investigation continues, yet Emily is more interested in the love life George may be denying himself. Julia makes a breakthrough, and Henry makes a poorly thought out decision.**

* * *

Emily Grace woke up the next morning several hours earlier than she was wont to do, and it was to the pounding of fists against her door. The noise jolted her from her bed and she threw on a robe before answering the door to see Constable Hodge, always the most apologetic of the lawmen sent to wake her at odd hours.

"There's been another murder?" She asked in a voice that betrayed just how exhausted she was.

Hodge's expression was sympathetic. "I'm afraid so, Doctor Grace. You're needed in the morgue."

"I'll be there presently," she told him, waiting until he had nodded and turned to go before shutting her door. Then, there was simply too much to do to be tired. Put the kettle on, dress quickly - but never quickly enough, damned corset! - braid hair, scarf down some bread and jam as the tea cooled...all told, Emily reached the morgue barely an hour after being called, and the body was just being wheeled in. She had barely begun the autopsy - _female, mid-forties, and absolutely killed in the same way as the three others -_ when Detective Murdoch strode in, a yawning George Crabtree at his heels.

There were times when Emily privately likened the twosome to a master and his faithful hound, but she knew that such ideas were uncharitable. Still, some images were hard to shake, and in her present state she almost expected George to begin panting, tongue lolling out of his mouth like an excited pup…

"What have you, Doctor Grace?" It was unfair how well put together the detective looked at all times. Then again, all _he_ had to do was put on a suit and slick back his hair. Men had it so easy.

"I'll have more once I can really begin the post-mortem, but this should be of interest," she announced, throwing back the cloth covering the body. "We have another word for our collection."

The detective's brow darkened as he examined the body. _Alderly_ was emblazoned across the woman's ribcage, drawing attention from the hand shaped bruises outlining her hips, her waist, her throat. Like the others, she too had been scarred, yet this time it looked as if it was some sort of pattern.

"Sir, look. He's carved a daisy on her skin." George frowned as he pointed it out.

"That's specific to this victim, George," Detective Murdoch murmured. "None of the other victims had anything recognizable on them. Perhaps this one is special."

Emily leaned in, giving the scar a closer look. It _did_ resemble a flower, but what caught her attention was… "It's more healed than the others. Look, some of the scars have already turned white." As the two men looked closer, she glanced over the body, confirming her suspicions. "As it is on her wrists and neck. This was one was held longer. She survived long enough for her cuts to scar...and likely the recurring bruises to heal."

"He had her while he was torturing the others," Detective Murdoch whispered, his gaze growing abstract, focused on something far away. "He's not just taking them one at a time. He has a selection. A menagerie…" His gaze sharpened and he was suddenly back in the present.

"Doctor, I need to know how long they were all in captivity. As best a timeline as you can. We knew Schmidt hadn't turned up for work at the docks for quite some time, and that Sawyer and Haydn had only disappeared recently. Can you give me an estimate how long she was held?"

Emily gazed back down at the woman. "There are tests I can run. But it would help if I knew something about the conditions in which they were kept. I'll do my best, Detective. And if you see your wife, maybe she could come down and assist?"

Detective Murdoch gave her a distracted nod. "Of course, Doctor. George, with me. We'll need to establish a timeline on our end, as well."

"Yes, sir."

The men swept from the morgue, and Emily got to work. Her day had just gotten that much busier. Along with the typical autopsy to perform on the Jane Doe, she now had to re-examine the other bodies, gauging how long they might have survived the killer's attentions...

Emily buckled down, totally engrossing herself in her work. In fact, she hadn't realized the passing of time until the sound of a cleared throat surprised her so badly she nearly leapt over the corpse she was examining. She whipped her head around, sagging in relief when she saw who it was.

"George! Don't _do_ that!"

He gave her a quirky grin before holding out a hot hamburger. "Sorry, Doctor. Just figured you'd be hungry after working all morning. Here. Peace offering?"

Emily stared at the hot hamburger, suddenly aware that she was utterly famished. She grabbed at the meal with unladylike grace, ignoring George's chuckle in favor of cramming the food into her mouth. She moaned around the first warm bite, stepping away from the corpse.

She swallowed before turning back to George. "Thank you," she said thickly. "I hadn't realized how hungry I was. Nor what time it is!"

George tipped his cap. "Happy to oblige, Doctor. I know how it gets. Well, not in the morgue, per say, but in times of general busyness…" Realizing he was beginning to ramble he unwrapped a hot hamburger of his own and began to eat.

Emily watched him take a bite, her brow creasing in confusion. Not that she didn't enjoy George's company, but why was he eating in her morgue? There were no explicit rules forbidding him, but surely it would be more comfortable up at the station house?

Without pulling her punches, she asked him. "George? What are you doing here?"

He looked up quickly, almost nervously. It made her nervous as well, as the last time George had looked at her in precisely that way, they were seeing each other. He couldn't be here to rekindle anything, could he? Surely even George's timing wasn't that awful!

"Wouldn't you be more comfortable at the station house?" She prompted, hoping that there could be a non-amorous explanation for George's presence.

"Yes, but Higgins just got back from his beat..." George muttered. Emily was surprised. The boys fought often - bickered, really, and it was more like a married couple than certain married couples she could name - but their squabbles were always easily resolved. It was nearly impossible for George to hold a grudge, and Henry had proven himself to be surprisingly mature when it came to his friend. That George was too nervous to face him now meant that this argument might be a cut more serious than the others, and Emily was intrigued.

"Fighting with Henry again?" She asked around another bite of her hot hamburger. "Oh, George. The two of you certainly know how to go at it. What was the quarrel about this time?" It took Emily a long moment to realize George wasn't going to respond. When she glanced up at him he was giving her such a serious look that her stomach fell. Suddenly, she remembered an incident she had nearly repressed: Henry and his awkwardly timed invitation to the agricultural fair.

She flushed with shame at how abrupt she had been, and Henry's expression when he had assured her he had been earnest. But how was she to know that Henry had been serious? Apart from one or two other instances - and all those while George was _present -_ he had never shown any special interest in her. In fact, he'd always seemed far more eager to talk to George than her, even when it was just the three of them!

"George," she began hesitantly, "I certainly hope it wasn't _me_ the two of you are fighting about."

"And why would you hope that, Emily?" George asked, and it was with all the force and righteousness of his Newfoundland aunts. "Is there a reason we should be fighting over you?"

Emily gave him a dire look of her own, as if it might possible for her to dissect him with her eyes alone. "George Crabtree, you stop that nonsense this instant. Whatever occurred between Henry and I is our business. Now, as you are one of my closest friends, I will tell you that it was nothing. I...reacted badly to an invitation, and that was that. It had nothing to do with you, however, and if _that_ ' _s_ why you're angry with Henry-"

"One of my closest friends, yes, yes indeed you are, Emily," George muttered. "And still this is the first I'm hearing of this from you. Of course, I suppose I can see why you mightn't have said anything. Maiden's hearts are easily bruised, and all that-"

"Maiden's hearts!" Emily broke in, scoffing. "Mine? I should think it obvious that in particular situation, it was not my heart that was bruised, George. So if its allowance you're granting, then maybe you should be a bit kinder to Henry!"

She braced herself for one of George's rather nonsensical comebacks, but all she received was a loaded silence, and one of his wide-eyed, confused expressions. He glanced down to the ground and kicked at the crumbling grout between the tiles before finally asking, "You broke his heart?"

Something in his expression reminded her that for all their squabbles, they were best friends for a reason. With that in mind she continued more carefully. "No," she asserted. "I disappointed him, but I'm sure I didn't break his heart. He's been fine ever since, hasn't he?"

"Well, I don't know about that," George prevaricated. "He's been known to have his ups and downs, especially when it comes to ladies."

She nearly stamped her foot in frustration. How was it that George could be so stubborn about this? He was so quick to accept everything else! "George, Henry is _fine._ It's been over a year since the incident, and I think we'd both know if he'd been pining."

George's mouth fell open. "A _year?"_ He screeched. "He kept this from me for one whole year?"

As his volume dropped and he continued to mutter, Emily took a deep breath and considered how best to end this conversation. Although George was a dear heart and one of her closest friends, she had two more bodies to look over, and it was well past noon. She had to present him with irrefutable logic, something that even he would have to consider…

"George," she said, interrupting him in the middle of something about Aunt Lilac and greased limbs, "I'm just going to say this once. What happened between Henry and I - or what _didn't_ happen, as it were - is between Henry and I. The only way this would concern you is if you and I had still been seeing each other - which we weren't. Or maybe if he had asked _you_ to the fair with romance in mind..."

He paled. It was sudden, yet unmistakable. His body went still and his mouth twitched as if he were trying to find the words to refute her point...and suddenly Emily understood.

"Oh Lord," she breathed. "That's it, isn't it? You're not just hurt. You're jealous!"

"Now, Emily," George tried, but she kept right on going.

"And you're not jealous of _him_ ," she whispered, seeing it all unfold in her mind as she spoke. Their bickering, their closeness, the way they'd smile and laugh with each other, brought into a sharp relief. The long lunches they'd take, the way they managed to _always_ be stationed for beats together, how George would uncomplainingly take long hours fingermarking as long as Henry was there too. The way George had sat at Henry's bedside when he'd been injured by that bomb, and how happy George had been when Henry admitted to enjoying his book...

"You're jealous of _me."_ She finished, gauging his expression for what truth she might find. At the moment, all she could tell was that her words had drained all the color from his face. "George, do you have feelings for Henry?"

Her baldly stated questions seemed to jolt him back to himself. "Well, I - I...well of _course_ I do, Emily, he's my best friend! Has been ever since I joined the constabulary! How could I not?"

"No, George. You know what I mean-"

He frowned, and his shoulders rose. "Now what you're speaking of is a sin, Emily. It's in the bible! Now, there is nothing wrong with Henry and I. We just have a rare sort of bond-"

Emily huffed in frustration. "Then you tell me what it is, George Crabtree! Explain this rare bond to me."

He swallowed. "Well. It's of long standing, you see, and we've grown quite accustomed to each other. We're a bit like brothers, yeah? I've uh, never had any of those before, so that's a large reason why I may be a bit protective of him at times. And we just suit each other well, even if he can be a bit of a downer at times. I will admit his optimism could be worked on-"

Knowing that he could ramble until the apocalypse was upon them, Emily interrupted him. "Have you ever thought about kissing him? Sleeping beside him?"

"Emily! For Heaven's sake, no!" His embarrassment was genuine, but even in this Emily found reason to suspect. His cheeks heated pink and she merely raised her eyebrow.

"Is that so? Well, perhaps I only held myself back because I was sure it would interfere with your 'rare bond'. Perhaps I'll go see if he wants to accompany me to a concert this evening-"

"Now hold it right there. I won't have you faffing about with my friend, not after you turned him down before!" George took a step towards her, before realizing he had fallen into her trap. "I mean…" he tried to backtrack, but Emily's grin grew.

"So, jealousy _is_ a part of your rare bond, eh, George?" She turned, but glanced back over her shoulder to give him an admonishing look. "I think you're just trying to ignore the obvious. That _bond_ between you and Henry? I think there's already a word for that." _Love_ , she mouthed, and just before she turned all the way around she had the pleasure of seeing George's face go red as a brick.

"Think about it," she sang out as George charged out of the morgue, shaking his head and muttering about overly-imaginative women. "Henry might thank you if you do!"

As soon as the door shut behind him she turned back to her corpses. Well, _that_ had been a pleasant diversion. And who knew? Maybe this would lead to a delicious solution for all those involved.

Emily shivered in delight. And if she were _really_ lucky, perhaps she'd catch a glimpse?

…

…

…

…

…

While William and Inspector Brackenreid argued over the victim's timeline, Julia frowned down at the photograph of the newest corpse. Another woman, another mysterious word. Yet this one was almost recognizable to her. Just like last night when she'd embraced William in the station house, she felt as if she were on the cusp of putting it all together. The pieces were there, but she couldn't quite get them to fit. _Alderly,_ she sounded out the word in her head. Or had it been the woman herself? Something about this one sparked a faint glimmer of recognition, but she couldn't quite place where she'd heard the word - or seen the woman - before…

"Sirs! Doctor!" She, William, and Inspector Brackenreid all turned to Henry, who had just burst into the office. As one, all sagged.

"Another murder, Henry?" William asked, his voice tired.

But there was an excited light in the constable's eyes, and he shook his head rapidly. "No, sir. I know who the victim is!" Triumphantly, he brandished a fashionable handbag, something that Julia herself would favor. At his superior's expectant expressions, he continued. "I remembered her word - Alderly. It's in this bag. On a card, no less."

"Where'd you get the bag?" The inspector asked as Henry handed it to William.

Henry grinned. "Behind the front desk! It was turned in a few months ago, and I was the one who catalogued the contents. I remembered it just a minute ago, but I clearly recall Jackson's comments about the lady's business and the odd card. If memory serves, the lady in question was supposed to have moved to America around the time she lost the purse, and she never showed up or sent word for it."

"And we never looked into it further?" Julia asked, watching William's expression out of the corner of her eye.

Henry shrugged, looking apologetic. "It was the day before your wedding, I think. It may have just gotten lost in the shuffle. I'm sorry."

"Well, perhaps it will help now." William thumbed open the victim's handbag, drawing out a delicate cardholder, modified to fit in a lady's purse. At the top was the word again: _Alderly,_ in black ink against a plain white card. Yet beneath that was what appeared to be a business card, proclaiming: _Susannah Stone, Purveyor of Exquisite Ladies' Wear._

William read the business card aloud. "Well, we know our victim."

"And what she sells," Brackenreid noted with a raised brow. "Perhaps she'll provide a connection with our killer? Or the other victims?"

"Hold on a moment," Julia said. Snippets of a memory flashed before her eyes: a yellowed newspaper clipping, a manor, a gossipping woman in a dress shop... "Alderly. _Alderly…"_ She stood abruptly, startling all the men in the room. "I have it! I remember what Alderly is!"

"Julia?" Her husband asked, taking a step towards her.

She shook her head, eyes alight with excitement. "Give me two hours. I need to see if I still have the newspaper articles. But when you investigate Miss Stone's shop, see if you can find a connection to the Alderly Manor up in Quebec...or its previous owner, Theodore Huxley."

…

…

…

…

…

William tipped his hat to the store clerk in goodbye as he met with Inspector Brackenreid on the sidewalk outside.

"Any luck then?" He asked gruffly, tapping his cane against the ground.

"No," William answered. "Apparently Mr. Sanders didn't waste any time in scooping up the abandoned property. As soon as the lease was up he had his people move in his things, and tossed out all her old wares. Those that he couldn't re-sell, of course."

The inspector shook his head. "Bloody shame, that is. Think we're getting close, Murdoch?"

William sighed. If only Julia had explained her suspicion, or given them anything else to go on! "It's luck enough that someone turned in Miss Stone's purse, and that Henry remembered it. We now have two new things to go on. Although if we're lucky Julia may have something concrete by the time we get back..."

…

As usual, Julia had outdone herself. William knew his faith would be rewarded when they walked back into his office and there was his wife, hands fluttering with excitement as she lay out all her evidence upon his desk.

"William! Inspector! Did you find anything?"

"No, Doctor," William raised an eyebrow as he looked over the multitude of papers cluttering his desk. "But it appears you have."

She waved the men over. "I have indeed. I have finally recalled _why_ this case seems so familiar. I've read of it before." She gestured to the first paper, an old newspaper article with the headline _**Scandal at Alderly - Millionaire's Partner Dies in Morbid Sexual Act.**_

"Knows how to make a statement," the inspector muttered.

"The millionaire in question is Theodore Huxley, son of the Huxley magnate, and a previous professor of ancient culture at the University of Quebec," Julia explained as William scanned the article. "Five years ago, he was taken in for manslaughter. His partner at the time, an unnamed gentleman, had apparently died as a result of...well, as the newspaper calls it, 'morbid sexual acts.' Biting was involved, however. _And_ a word painted in blood."

"What was it?" William asked, attention riveted.

Julia shook her head. "It was never reported. I believe it was painted on the walls of his bedroom, however, not his person. Apparently…" Julia drew up another sheet of paper, this time of the trial proceeding. "Professor Huxley claimed the word was his lover's safeword. In accordance with their play, whenever one of them uttered this safeword, they were to refrain from any more of that particular action, and a cool down period was enacted."

"Someone missed the memo on that," the inspector said. "Looks like the chap can't play his own bloody game!"

"Indeed," Julia agreed. "Especially if it is as I suspect, and the safeword now acts as a _deathword._ He very well could be torturing them until they are forced to give the word, choosing death over his continued attentions!" She shook her head, breathing heavily as she returned to her narrative. "Huxley was ruled insane. Apparently his behavior on the stand didn't help matters. He seemed to be eaten up with grief over having accidentally killed his lover. He claimed that their game had gone horribly wrong."

"I can imagine," William murmured. "But if he was tried in Quebec, he would have undoubtedly been put to death."

Julia shook her head. "Conservative as they are, he somehow managed to _beat_ the death sentence. Life in prison, William. As far as I know, he's still alive."

"And he may just be our man," Inspector Brackenreid announced. "Time for me to check in with our Frenchie friends, see if the madman's still behind bars. Do you have the prison where he was kept, Doctor?"

"Of course." Julia handed him one last sheet of paper and Brackenreid nodded to her.

"Much obliged," he thanked her. "Murdoch, you get working on the connection between this Huxley and Miss Stone. See if there were any parties at this Alderly Manor, or if he ever purchased any ladieswear. Doctor? Good work."

The inspector stormed out, and William turned to his wife. "Good work indeed. Where would we be without you?"

Julia smiled up at him, and his heart fluttered just as it had the first time she'd ever done so. "In a far worse place than this, William. Now, let's get to work!"

…

…

…

…

…

Henry sighed as he glanced up at the empty desk in front of him. George was avoiding him, and for what? For Henry being an idiot, that was what. This was the longest they'd ever gone without resolving a fight, and the fear that it might never be fixed sat heavily in his stomach.

It didn't help that he continually tortured himself with awful possibilities. What if George was still so angry at him because he was still in love with Emily? Henry thought that he had been resigned to that when he'd seen how good they were together. Sure, there had been a bit of a class difference, and he suspected Emily's eyes were a bit more prone to wandering than George's, but at the end of the day he wanted his best friend's happiness, even if it meant that he had to watch someone else make him so. Bottom line was that they had been good together. Even if Henry hadn't been the cause of it ending - was nowhere _near_ the cause of it ending - he shouldn't have tried anything...even if it was the only way he'd ever get a taste of George, even if indirectly.

Henry could imagine just how well explaining that might go over. _Well, you see, George, Emily is a nice girl and all, and I like her a lot, but the only reason I noticed her is because you did. And the only reason I asked her out was because_ you _had. And the only way I'd ever be able to touch her or kiss her at all is because I know that_ you _once had, and that way I could just close my eyes and pretend that she still tastes like_ you, _maybe even_ is _you-_

"Henry?"

Henry jumped in his chair. Jackson leaned over his desk with a concerned expression. "Is everything all right?" He glanced around awkwardly before continuing, "You know, if you need someone to talk to...even about-" his eyes cut to George's desk, "colleagues, you know I won't judge. You're both my friends, and-"

Henry sighed, standing abruptly. If one more person tried to talk to him about George Crabtree, he may just go insane. "It's all right, Jackson," he said instead. "Thank you. But I was actually thinking about that purse that was brought in. You know, the one the day before the detective's wedding?"

Jackson blinked at the sudden change in topic. "Er, well...yes, I remember. The one with the funny word on the card. What about it?"

"Do you remember where it was found?"

Jackson pinked. It had been a cute young miss that had brought it in, and Jackson had stumbled over himself in trying to talk to her. At the time, Henry had watched, amused. Now he was hoping that Jackson might be able to recall exactly what the young lady had said.

"Uh, well. I believe she said she found it in the old foundry district...maybe off of Chester street? It was someplace odd, but she mentioned it _had_ been covered in sawdust…"

The old foundry district? That was out of his way, and a bit of a rough neighborhood, but Henry wasn't a constable for nothing. Maybe he'd stop by and take a look before heading home. It might be a welcome distraction from all the worrying he was doing over George, at any rate.

"Thank you, Jackson. When the detective comes back, let him know you remembered where it was picked up, yeah? I think I'll stop by and have a look around when I'm off duty."

Jackson nodded and then hesitated. "But, Henry?"

"Yes?"

"You're...technically off duty now. Have been for the past twenty minutes."

Henry swore under his breath as he looked up at the clock. This was what came of worrying over George Crabtree! "Thank you, Jackson. I'll be heading off, then."

Henry stood to go, collecting his things before heading off to the locker room. Jackson loitered for a moment, standing awkwardly by until Henry gave him a look.

"I'll just uh...if I see George…"

Henry sighed. "Jackson, you don't have to get involved-"

Jackson finished in a rush. "It's not right that you two are at odds. It's just...the whole station house knows _that."_

Henry swallowed, looking anywhere but his concerned friend. Jackson was right. Henry couldn't take much more of this. If he could just give George some believable excuse, hopefully all would go back to normal. "I...I know, Jackson. If you see him, tell him I'd like a word. And not an angry one, either."

Jackson beamed, seeing the end of the silent war in sight. "Good man, Henry! I'll be sure to do so. Good luck. And uh, be safe on your way home, yeah? The old foundry district isn't the safest place to be at night."

Henry agreed before walking off. Unsafe or no, he was more concerned about his upcoming conversation with George. With all the secrets he had to hide, how could poking around an old foundry be more dangerous than what might come of _that?_

 _..._

 _..._

 _..._

 **HENRY NO THINK ABOUT THIS**

 **Also, Emily is every single one of us do not lie. Fangirls unite!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Super fast update, but all I have left to finish is Julia and Murdoch's sexytimes epilogue, so this update is in total celebration. Hope you enjoy!**

* * *

 **Chapter 4:**

 **The identity of the murderer has been uncovered, but then another member of the Higgins clan arrives and all goes to hell in a handbasket. A hasty plan is hatched wherein Murdoch mixes business with pleasure, and as it turns out, George owns a gun.**

* * *

By 10 in the morning the next day, William Murdoch was fairly sure they had unravelled all but the last few threads of the case. Even the addition of another corpse - _a middle-aged African American named Simon Wilkes, reported missing almost two weeks ago, and whose safeword had apparently been 'Ragtime' -_ did not deter him. The inspector had discovered that Theodore Huxley had escaped six months ago and neither hide nor hair of him had been seen since. They now had the killer, his methodology, and a few connections - both to Rolf Schmidt, who had apparently been seeking a less deadly version of his bondage play, and to Miss Stone, who had also been interested in some rather salacious sexual choices, according to one of her old seamstresses.

 _The lady was always on about certain fancy parties,_ the gossipping old biddy had told he and Brackenreid yesterday afternoon. _Parties where no proper young woman would go. Masquerades and such, and always coming home in a different man's carriage the next day! Sometimes, she wouldn't even model for up to a week after. They'd leave bruises on her, they would. And once, I thought I saw the imprint of a...of a_ leash _around her neck!_

There may or may not be a connection between the other three victims and Huxley, and it was something he'd had George looking into all morning. They may simply have been all at the wrong place and the wrong time. He had been looking into Huxley's holdings in Toronto, and coming up short. He had to have a place to torture his victims...but where? There had been traces of sawdust on all the victims save Schmidt who had been found a day after a heavy rain. It may mean that they had been held - however briefly - in some sort of mill, workshop, foundry…

"Where the bloody hell is Higgins?" Inspector Brackenreid bellowed, charging out of his office with a cup of lukewarm tea. "He's two hours past reporting for duty! If he's not on his deathbed, I'll have his plums for dinner!"

William glanced over the pen, surprised that Henry was late. Had his fight with George really been that serious? But just then George bounded up, and from the resigned expression on his face William knew there would be little to be found. "What have you, George?" He asked anyway, hoping to be proved wrong.

George shook his head. "Very little, I'm afraid, sir. I couldn't find anything connecting Sawyer, Haydn, or Wilkes to either Huxley or the two other victims. All three seemed to be rather involved in their churches, sir, and not inclined to seek out events of that nature. But I did find a way the three of _them_ were connected."

William nodded. "Go on."

"Well, sir. Sawyer and Wilkes were part of a street hockey league that got together throughout the year to play some friendly games. Now, Miss Haydn's sweetheart _also_ was in the league, and she would come and watch him play, just about every week. Now, no one can tell me if Sawyer or Wilkes knew each other specifically - or even the sweetheart, as they were all on separate teams. But it is a connection, sir."

William nodded, images flashing behind his eyelids. All the victims had been attractive, and the killer would have watched the men play, attracted to their strength, speed, stamina. And then perhaps his attention might have been drawn to the lovely lady watching, giving her support to her young man. "George, I need to know where these games take place."

George nodded. "Well, sir, that would be at the edge of the old foundry district, off of Rosemary street. Plenty of open space there, since the old blacksmithing foundry closed down. As long as they don't mind a little sawdust kicked about, it's a good place to play."

William's eyes widened with another flash of intuition. There had been trace particles of sawdust on all the bodies, although none in the environments where all the corpses had been found. Could it be so simple? Could Huxley be right under their very noses?

"Sir, if I may...have _you_ seen Henry this morning? I've...well, I've taken your words to heart, and-"

"No, George, I haven't seen him." William shook his head, still distracted by the last echoes of his epiphany. If this hockey league was how Huxley was finding victims, perhaps there was another connection to it as well. After all, the league needed permission to use the space. If he could just determine who had _granted_ that permission, perhaps he'd have him-

"George Crabtree! Explain zis foolishness at ze once!"

Both men tensed. There was only one woman known to station house four that could be that loud, angry, and French all at once. Mrs. Higgins was usually the sweetest of women, but once her passions were enraged…well. She was not French for nothing.

She charged in past Jackson, down the pen directly to William and George. George, who'd had the most experience with Henry's mother, cringed.

"Ma'am," he began, holding his hands out in a placating gesture. "Now, Henry and I might be having a bit of a tiff, you might say, but I'm sure it will all be over with as soon as we can just talk some things out-"

" _Non, petit singe,"_ she told him in French, and William's eyebrows rose. She switched back into heavily-accented English before continuing, "I am not speaking about your little fight _._ I want to know where is my _Henri?"_

"That seems to be the question of the hour," William murmured, a vague suspicion taking hold.

George shrugged helplessly. "Well, how would I know, ma'am? He's been avoiding me!"

The diminutive woman raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Zat is what you say, George _Crabtree?_ Zen why in his apartment did I find zis?" With a flourish, she threw down a plain white card upon Henry's desk, with only one word upon it: _Crabtree._

Absolute silence reigned as everyone present took in the implications of the card, the word...and Henry's disappearance.

For once, William responded first. "Oh Lord," he whispered, as all the blood drained from George's face. "He has Henry."

…

…

…

…

…

George didn't remember events very well after Mrs. Higgins threw that card down upon the desk, but he thought he might not need to. He knew the pertinents parts. He kept hearing the detective's voice on repeat, _Oh Lord, he has Henry._ This was punctuated by the inspector's _And just how did he know where Henry lived?_ And whether his eyes were open or shut he still saw the card and his name _\- his name -_ on it.

George neither knew nor cared how Huxley had slipped the card into Henry's apartment. The bastard had _Henry._ And what had his safeword been? His name! _His!_ If Doctor Ogden was right about the role the safeword would play in the murderer's game, his last name would be the last thing Henry ever said. His name! From his Henry! And then he would be dead!

George stood, only realizing he had been sitting in the first place when his knees nearly buckled beneath him.

Thankfully the inspector caught him. "Oi, bugalugs. Take it easy. We're gonna' catch the bastard, and save Higgins while we're at it. Just stay calm and-"

"I am calm, sir," George said, but all his words sounded like they were from too far away. Had his voice always sounded like this? "Please excuse me, I need to go after Henry now."

The detective shared a concerned glance with the inspector, but George couldn't be bothered. Who cared what they thought of him? This was Henry! Why weren't they doing anything?

"Jackson says that Henry wanted to take a look around the old foundry district last night, just to check out where Miss Stone's purse had been dropped," the detective explained, turning back to his chalkboard. Then there was a warm presence at his other side and Doctor Ogden wrapped an arm around him, as comforting as any of his aunts.

"It will be all right," she whispered as Murdoch drew out a quick map of the foundry district on the board. "We'll get him back, George."

He nodded stiffly, but all he could think about was Henry, tied up and helpless. Huxley would be touching him, beating him, cutting him, hurting him, and the only way out for him would be to say his name one last time…

"Now, the purse was found off of Chester street, and the hockey league was based off of Rosemary. That leaves three buildings between them. Owned by…" Murdoch rifled through a directory on his desk, humming when he found it. "This building _here_ is owned by a Thomas Morehall; this is owned by the Gladstone Company...and-" He glanced up. "This last one here, just off of Holly street...it's owned by a Malcolm Alderly."

"That's him. It's got to be," the inspector asserted. "Same name as his bloody Manor!"

"We need to proceed carefully," Murdoch said, glancing over at Dr. Ogden. "Julia, will you stay behind with George?"

She spared him a calculating glance before she hesitantly agreed, "In this instance...perhaps it would be best. But next time you're not going anywhere without me, William."

It was then that George realized what had been said. "No. I can't stay. He has _Henry."_

Dr. Ogden and Murdoch shared a look before she tried to explain. "That's why, George. You're upset, and it might endanger his chances. Stay here, and he'll be relieved that you're safe as well."

George shook his head. Why didn't they understand? Was he speaking gibberish? "No, no. I have to go. Henry used...it's me. Don't you get it? It's me! I'm his safeword!" He breathed deeply, straightening his shoulders as he looked Detective Murdoch in the eye. "Please, sir. I'm not going to stay. You might as well take me with you."

"Let him go," the inspector agreed. From the looks Dr. Ogden and Murdoch gave him, it was as much of a surprise to them as it was to George. "They're constables for a reason, aren't they? We've all had to make tough decisions about the ones we care for. Besides, I doubt he's going to stay where we put him. Bring him along. I'll keep him with me."

After a moment Murdoch nodded. "If you're sure, sir. But we need to get moving. We-"

"Wait, William - we can't just waltz in there! He may panic and kill them all. Who knows how badly Huxley will take to having his game interrupted?" Dr. Ogden stepped away from George so that she could pace. "We need to distract him. Give him something he wants even more than 'playing' with Henry or the others."

"And just what might that be?" The inspector asked.

Dr. Ogden frowned. "New...players, I suppose? Willing ones would be best. Or perhaps some new facet to his game?"

Murdoch took a deep breath, his eyes opening wide. "I have an idea."

…

…

…

…

…

Julia stumbled from the carriage, tripping over the loose cobblestones in the dark. At the last moment she remembered to giggle brightly as William caught her, pulling her to him so that for a moment, they stood chest to chest.

"Are you sure this is the best idea?" She hissed, holding her smile in place all the while.

Her husband's smile was also strained, but more natural than hers. "You're the most beautiful woman in the world, Julia," he assured her with utmost sincerity. "If Huxley isn't enticed, there is something wrong with him."

There was something wrong with Huxley anyway, Julia knew for certain. Yet it was not only herself she was worried for. William Murdoch, while oblivious, was an incredibly handsome man. She feared it was more likely to be _he_ that piqued Professor Huxley's interests! She had attempted to tell him so in the carriage but he had taken her fears lightly. _No,_ he had murmured. _I'm nowhere near as exquisite as you are, Julia…_

The heat in his gaze had caused her to shift in her seat, and his quick eyes had caught her movement. Perhaps that was the reason for the pleased smile, even though they were currently being used as bait in the trap for Professor Huxley.

William had laid out the plan only a few hours before: he and Julia would stumble into the old foundry, looking for a non-discreet spot to entertain a new, public sexual fantasy, centering in on bondage, and of control. Huxley would hopefully be drawn by the sounds of Jackson and Worseley making a ruckus above one of the broken windows of the foundry, talking loudly about the posh couple going at it in public. While they were enticing Huxley - and any unknown assistants he may have - the other constables of station house four would be doing discreet rounds, making sure no one else stumbled into the trap, nor gave the detective and the doctor any bother.

Meanwhile, George and Brackenreid stood at the ready to arrest Huxley, or if the situation warranted it, to batter down the doors in an effort to free the surviving prisoners. Such an action was reserved as a final effort, and only if Huxley did not take the bait. All were hoping that there would still be a way to resolve the matter without any more lives being lost...particularly Henry's.

William ran his hands all over her body as he lead her down an alley, and suffered no compunction in telling her exactly what he would do to her as soon as they were alone. He playing the part of a lecherous, domineering man with aplomb, and Julia was amazed. From the shy, respectful lover he normally was to this? She loved her man dearly, but deep down, she wondered if he might retain a bit of this confidence for her to fully enjoy later…

They staggered back into the shadows of main floor of the foundry, and Julia giggled again as her back hit the wall. He leaned in to kiss her, and when they broke apart Julia whispered, "But what about George? Do you think he'll stay back with the inspector?"

William sighed against her mouth. "I don't know, Julia," he admitted. "I'm hoping this ends before it all comes to that…"

"As do I," she whispered in response. Then, an impish thought occurred to her. Might she be able to influence his sexual bravado, and turn the tide of this encounter into something enjoyable for both? "Now, William," she purred, running a gloved finger slowly up his chest. "Perhaps you would care to dominate me?"

He swallowed thickly, and even though they were in the middle of a dangerous mission, Julia felt a spike of arousal.

"As my lady commands," William murmured, just as he had the last time they had been intimate. Then his mouth covered hers and she heard the clink of handcuffs as he pulled them out of his pocket.

At the thought of him using them on her, Julia sagged against the wall.

…

…

…

…

…

Meanwhile, Thomas Brackenreid peered around the corner. Jackson and Worseley were still hamming it up outside Alderly's foundry, but his attention was caught by the faint light within. A candle, from the looks of it, and although he could only catch glimpses of it as the carrier passed in and out of view, he would bet that it was making its way upwards.

Someone was inside the foundry late at night. Thomas could only hope it was Huxley and that he was coming to investigate the ruckus...and maybe sneak a peep at the free show Murdoch and his wife were putting on.

"Show time, bugalugs," he hissed out to George, who had taken up a post in an adjacent alley about a block down from him. When there was no reply, he sighed. George was in a right state about Henry being taken, and he didn't want to know how the lad would take it were Henry to be in a worse state than merely captured. The idea didn't sit well with Thomas himself - one of his boys, captured? Not on his watch! - but he knew George would take it the hardest. Like brothers he'd called them, and now he saw how right he'd been. But a job was a job, and if George didn't get his act together, Thomas was going to have to make this arrest all by himself, and potentially miss any accomplices Huxley may or may not have…

He strode off down the street, taking care to keep in the shadows. He'd been in East London long enough to know how the world worked, even if he was on the right side of the law, now. He saw George's newsboy hat before he saw him - just the brim of it, sticking out into the street. Surely the lad's nose wasn't too far behind, Thomas reasoned just as a he turned the corner-

And swore angrily. "Bloody, buggering hell! Crabtree!"

George's hat was perched atop a bag of onions with a crudely drawn face inked in. In the darkness and at such a distance it had just passed for George's face. The ploy was aided by the fact that they'd kept their silence for the last twenty minutes, waiting. For just how long had George been missing? When had he made the switch?

"Bloody hell," Thomas muttered. "I'll have his next paycheque for this."

…

…

…

…

…

Halfway down the third descending staircase he'd taken since entering the foundry, George froze. For a moment he could have _sworn_ he'd heard the inspector swearing… He shook his head. There was no way, even if sound seemed to travel oddly down here, and echoes from the surface seemed to linger far too clearly for how far down he had gone.

He continued slowly, making sure to walk at the very edges of the steps. He'd learned in childhood that the steps creaked less that way, if at all. And now that he knew he wasn't alone in the foundry, he needed to be even more careful. He'd hidden behind a stack of barrels when the young man had strode past, shielding the candle with his hand. George had almost attacked him then and there but he had remembered: Professor Huxley had not been a young when he'd first been imprisoned. This could not be the perpetrator, but was very likely an accomplice. So he had let him go, knowing that he'd be trapped by Murdoch and the inspector soon enough.

George tightened his grip on his billy stick, while his other hand slipped to the pocket where he'd hidden a .22 revolver. Whether there were any more accomplices or no, George was fully prepared to end Huxley's life, if need be. Henry's safety, as well as the other captives may depend upon it.

When he reached the bottom of the staircase the path split into three. He took a moment wondering which the assistant had come from when there was suddenly a cool draft of air to his left. He peered down the hallway and considered. The air had carried a wiff of something floral yet alcoholic...was that something naturally to be found in a foundry? George thought not, and so he cautiously crept down the passage, keeping an eye out for any sign of foul play.

Yet the passage capped off before he'd gone more than 100 yards, and he drew up short. Thinking he'd made a mistake George turned to go, but then he smelt it again - the scent of a man's cologne. It was much stronger here, yet the passage was empty. So then where…?

George could have smacked himself when he realized. Through the walls! There must be some sort of secret door leading to where Henry and the others must be kept! Hurriedly he ran his hands all along the walls, desperate to find the catch. He covered every inch of the far wall, and then the one to the east, but then the scent faded. George slammed his hands against the wall, too caught up in his frustration to be cautious. What if Huxley was hurting Henry, and George was only a few feet away?

Yet the wall beneath his left hand had given slightly. The sound of it was different than the wall underneath his right hand, and George shifted. The man who had passed him on the stairway had been taller than he...George hopped up, fingers brushing against the stone, catching against something -

There was the sound of a lock clicking into place and suddenly the hidden door directly to George's left depressed before beginning to swing open. He was so taken aback there was no time to hide. He stood in front of the door as it opened, affording him a perfect view of the room that lay beyond.

Deep within the belly of the foundry, Huxley had taken advantage of the cavernous space to set up his playground. Lit by electric lights affixed to the walls, George could see all but the deepest corners of the room. At the center of the room was an upraised platform, and in the center of that stood a man with his back towards him, stark naked save for leather vambraces on his forearms. At opposite ends of the platform were two women strapped down to medical tables, raised vertically so that they were helpless to witness his atrocities. They were flanked by half a dozen empty tables, stained red with blood.

Strapped to the raised table before Huxley, bound and gagged and just visible beneath Huxley's upraised arm, was Henry.

George pulled out the revolver and flicked off the safety.

…

…

…

…

…

 **Petit singe = little monkey, of which George is absolutely one.**

 **Go George, go! Save your Henry!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Warnings for undetailed descriptions of rape, torture, death.**

* * *

 **Chapter 5:**

 **Where the day is saved and the murderer apprehended, and only one person is shot in doing so. Henry and George try quite manfully to communicate, and Emily witnesses the application of a magical talisman.**

* * *

William was more than a little dazed when he realized he and Julia were being watched. Yet his wife was even more so. She had responded surprisingly well to being handcuffed, hands bound in front of her in a way that had her cleavage practically spilling from the confines of her dress. She had responded even better when he had ordered her in gruff, no-nonsense terms what she was to do to him. She had shuddered against him when he had ordered her to stroke his cock - and even now he blushed to remember his usage of that word. The taste of it still seemed to singe his lips! - and the positioning of it was somewhat awkward, but she had done so with great alacrity and enthusiasm. So much so that he suspected she might have orgasmed almost immediately when he had pulled her away and put his own hands on her, stroking her pleasure button through her dress and chemise.

Thankfully, she had finished before he heard the tell-tale scuffle of boots upon wood floor. And seeing as how George or the inspector would have announced their presence, there was only one person it could be.

There was the curious feeling of _movement_ behind him, and William spun, prepared to defend Julia from Huxley. Yet even in the darkness, his first glimpse of the attacker caused his stomach to drop. This wasn't Huxley. This was -

"Toronto constabulary! You're under arrest!"

Joe Kleppens - amateur hockey player, first-generation German-Canadian and Evelyn Haydn's fiancee - froze, the two by four in his hand forgotten when Inspector Brackenreid burst through the door behind him. Julia moved hurriedly to adjust her dress, ensuring she was decent. William, on the other hand, gripped the young man by the wrist and squeezed, causing him to drop the plank of wood with a startled cry.

" _You,_ " he hissed. _"_ You're the one working with Huxley?"

"Yeah," he sneered. "Too bad you didn't figure that out in time-"

William threw him at the inspector, who held him as he hurriedly unlocked Julia from the manacles. Then he handed them to Brackenreid, who duly cuffed the lad and knocked him about the head for good measure. Then he leaned close to William.

"I've got this, me mucker. But I lost Crabtree. I think he went in after him."

William exhaled in a rush. "Oh, Lord. _"_ He glanced back at Julia, making sure she was all right. "Julia, I need you to call for backup. I need to go after him."

"William, I'm coming with you!"

"No, Julia you need to-"

The muffled sound of a gunshot interrupted them. Quiet as it was it was nearly missed, but both William and the inspector had been in law enforcement long enough to recognize it anywhere. Everyone froze, even Joe Kleppens.

" _George,"_ William, Julia, and the inspector said at once.

…

…

…

…

…

Things had moved quite quickly after George had stumbled into Huxley's playground. One sight of Henry lying there, struggling against his bonds had been all he needed. Something in him had snapped, and without a moment's concern for his own safety, George strode right to the platform.

One of the women saw him and began to moan from behind her gag, and it drew Huxley's attention. "Well, Joseph. Took you long enough. Have you brought someone new to play with?"

"No," George said, raising the gun. Only when Huxley began to turn, surprised, did he shoot.

The gunshot seemed to echo in the room, deafening him. He held the smoking revolver in his hands yet all he could see was Huxley's look of surprise as he clutched his shoulder with his free hand. The scalpel clattered to the floor and he followed shortly thereafter, his knees giving out on him.

Then George was on the platform, kicking the groaning man off the side. He fell off the platform with a loud moan of pain, and George supposed it was for the best that he hadn't killed him outright. But then Henry was right in front of him, eyes wide, struggling all the harder now. George could hardly bear to look at him, afraid of what he might see. Keeping his eyes firmly on his face, George pulled away the gag, fingers thick and clumsy with the aftershocks of his fear, thudding through his veins like it had replaced the blood itself.

"Henry, are you-"

"Get the women out, George!" Henry cut him off, glancing at both of them. "I'm fine. They need medical attention. And be careful - he had an accomplice!"

"I know," George murmured. "I passed him on the way here." Before he could pull himself away however, he brought his hand to Henry's cheek. Just for a moment. He knew Henry was right, that the women were the first priority. But he needed to touch him, just once. Just to be sure he was all right.

"George," Henry whispered. "I'm so glad to see you."

George nodded before he tore himself away, glancing once at Huxley to make sure he was still there, lying huddled on the ground in an effort to keep from bleeding out. Then George grabbed his knife to cut away the gags and leather bonds restraining the naked women, first one, and then the other. He helped them over to the far edge of the platform before turning back for Henry, who had alternated between watching him and Huxley with burning eyes all the while.

From this far away, he could see the bruises on Henry's shoulder, his abdomen, his hip. His lip was split, and there was a darker bruise at the base of his throat. If he stepped closer, George knew he'd see teeth marks. He felt anger rise up in him again, and he readied the gun, striding over to where he'd have a clear shot of Huxley-

"George, no! Let the law have him!"

It had not been Henry that had told him to stand down, nor either of the two women huddling in the corner. It had been Detective Murdoch with Inspector Brackenreid at his heels, striding across the warehouse. George felt his determination crumble, and the relief of knowing it was all over made him weak. After a moment of hesitation, he thumbed back on the safety to the gun, slipping it back into his pocket. Then Murdoch was climbing up the platform, as Brackenreid walked around, making the arrest.

"Toronto Constabulary! Theodore Huxley, you are under arrest for murder, you depraved bastard!"

"Cut him down, George," William said, glancing once at Henry before looking away. "I'll get the women up to Julia."

"Yes, sir."

Before George could reach him, Henry called out, "Detective - there are blankets in that chest over there. My uniform might still be in there as well. I'm not sure he had a chance to discard it."

William nodded tightly, veering away from the women so that he could clothe their nakedness, first. "Excellent thinking, Henry. I'm glad you kept your wits about you. _And_ that you're all right."

"Well, I'm glad you saved us," Henry replied, but George had stepped up to him then and Henry had said it without taking his eyes off of him, as if it were meant more for George than anyone else. "George," he continued, his voice dropping low. "I'm sorry, I-"

"I'm cutting you down now, Henry Higgins," George said carefully, for if he said anything else he thought he might end up like Aunt Briony again, weeping in the kitchen but this time out of sheer joy. "And then we are going to get you back into that uniform of yours. And then I am not going to take my eyes off of you ever again, not in a million years. _Not ever again_ , Henry. _"_

Henry smiled weakly, never looking anywhere other than his face. "Yeah. Yeah, that sounds good, George. But uh, if you could hurry it up, maybe? I'm getting kind of cold."

"Oh, right, sorry." George glanced away from him to free one hand, then the other. But to get to his feet he had to look past the bruises on his hip, as well the little bird - as he preferred to think of it - that lay tucked against Henry's thighs.

George sucked in a deep breath as he cut through the first ankle cuff. Just because he kept himself from looking at that specific part of Henry did not mean he couldn't think about it. There hadn't seemed to be any discoloration at a distance, but that wasn't the only way he could be hurt. Especially _there._ "Did he touch you?" He asked abruptly, glancing up when Henry did not immediately reply. Henry simply looked down at him, an inscrutable expression on his face.

George's heart stopped in his chest. "Well? Did he?" He knew he was getting upset, but he couldn't help it. With one last slice the cuff was cut through, leaving Henry to grip the edge of the table to keep from lurching off it.

George set to work on the last cuff, sawing mindlessly. Henry's silence spoke volumes. Huxley had touched him. Had sucked on his neck, had _bitten_ him. And Henry hadn't used his safeword. Hadn't said George's name.

"It wasn't anything I couldn't handle, George," Henry finally murmured. "I just...I just pretended it was someone else."

The last of the leather cuff gave way and Henry fell to the floor, leaving them eye to eye. George had reached out instinctively to steady him, but found that when they were that close he could neither look away, nor remove his hand from Henry's waist. He simply stood there, holding him up, staring him down, wishing that he had words for all these feelings jumbling around inside of him just like the gypsy moths he had accidentally set free into Aunt Lily's room that one time-

"Henry, can you walk on your own?" Murdoch called out from the other end of the platform. "George, I need your help. Both of these women must be carried."

"Yes sir," Henry's mouth said, but George fancied his eyes might be saying something different. It took an unexpected effort for George to pull himself away from his friend, heading back towards the detective. Murdoch already had one of the women in a bridal carry, and she looked to be only a few steps away from death's door. The other woman was still conscious, although emaciated, pale, and with an abstracted look in her eye.

"Up you go, miss," George said as he stepped close to her, holding out his arms. Instinctively she shied away from him, and he waited patiently for her to allow him to touch her. Every moment she stalled was another for Henry to dress himself and follow after, and even though George knew it was safe now, he still meant to make good on his promise to protect him. Right now he didn't want to let him out of his sight, even though Detective Murdoch was already halfway to the secret door.

Finally, she allowed him to hoist her up. He took his time doing so, half-concerned for her delicate state, but also to glance back at Henry. He'd thought his friend might be only half-dressed but his friend surprised him again. Henry practically charged past him, buttoning up the last few buttons of his jacket as he went. George stepped quickly after him and for a moment thought that Henry might have remembered that he was angry with him.

Yet when Henry had climbed down the platform he glanced back at George and asked, "You coming, George?"

A new, wonderful warmth suffused George's entire being. Henry was here, alive, with him! "Now, this isn't a race, Henry. If so, I believe I would have won long ago for not being caught in the first place…"

…

…

…

…

…

Emily sat with her back against the wall, taking a moment of reflection. The night had been a doozy one, as her father would have said, and while she may sleep with the light on for the next night or so, she was glad that Henry - and the two surviving women - were now safe.

It had all gone to plan, except for the part about George charging into the foundry on his own. But if not for that, Huxley may have been alerted by Joe's absence, so perhaps it was for the best after all. Especially as Huxley had not died from the gunshot to his shoulder. Now, both he and Kleppens would be headed for the noose. Their twisted plot was being drawn out of them even now, while Murdoch and Brackenreid interrogated them at the station. Emily had chosen to come along to the hospital with Julia to assist the two surviving females, and to lend her support for her two friends.

Marie Coldwell and Anna Meyers had been women from very different walks of life. While Marie had been a high society woman chasing thrills in the same vein - and parties - as Susannah Stone, Anna had been a hockey enthusiast. Yet both women had a will of pure iron and refused to utter their safewords - _Aurora_ and _Reginald_ , respectively. They had both survived for three weeks under Huxley's deranged attentions, watching as others were brought in, tortured, raped, and then murdered.

The doctors were unsure whether Marie would survive the night, but Anna's prognosis was more positive. She was awake and aware, having snapped to herself in the carriage ride over. It was she who had given her testimony to Julia, copied out word for word for Murdoch to peruse.

"The first night he made you watch. Just so you knew exactly what he'd do to you," she had whispered in a raspy voice. "Lined everybody up so we all had a clear view, and so he could access us at any time. He'd take his time explaining everything he would do. It made you more afraid for your turn."

Julia had held her hand gently as she asked, "How were you captured?"

Anna pursed her lips. "After a hockey game. Joe came up to me, asking for some help with fundraising for an event. He was one of the league organizers - I didn't know not to trust him. I followed him behind the foundry, and Huxley was there. I tried to run but they caught me. Huxley held me down and made me pick a word - said it was my safeword, and when I used it, he would kill me and the pain would be over. It couldn't be a word we used often, so I gave him my father's name. He hit me so often as a child...I figured I'd never say _that_ name again. And then he put a cloth over my mouth and I...it made me fall asleep."

Julia had smiled at her reassuringly. "Anna, you were so strong and brave. All is going to be well now. Huxley and Kleppens will hang for this. I promise you."

Anna managed a growl. "Hang Joe first. Hang him _harder._ He was worse than Huxley - and he only...he only hurt the women. He was so mad when Evelyn chose to die that he killed Susannah without her safeword. Just kept cutting her with the knife until she bled out. Huxley hadn't been there when he did it, and he was so angry...but then he did the same thing to Simon only a few days later." Anna choked, swallowing back her tears. "It was the only thing we had, doctor. The safeword. And Joe took even _that_ away from us!"

Julia's face had darkened, imagining some of the atrocity this young woman had faced. "I promise, Anna. Both men will die."

"What about Marie?" Anna had then asked. "She made me strong. Made me hold on. They have to make her better, Doctor. Please. Make her better!"

Anna had cried then, too weak to muster up anything more than a thin trickle. Emily closed her eyes, remembering. Sleep had come for the girl soon after, and Marie still hovered just this side of death. For how hard she had fought to cling to life, there was no reassurance she would be alive come the morning. Perhaps it had been less of a victory than they had expected?

Emily opened her eyes as Julia closed the door behind her, shuffling her notes into order. She smiled tiredly down at the younger coroner.

"It's getting late, and I need to get these notes to William. Emily, will you go check on Henry and George for me?"

Emily nodded quickly. Although there had been no way of knowing what would happen, she felt a little guilty for teasing George about Henry just before he had been captured. And perhaps it was time to show there was no awkward feelings on her side, especially for the two boys at station house four who had once cared for her. So, bidding Julia goodnight, she strode off down the hospital ward to the room where Henry had been deposited, with George standing guard.

Some intuitive sense slowed her steps as she approached the room. She peered around the doorframe to see Henry laying back on the hospital bed, forcing a quirky smile at whatever George had just said. George turned to go, but Henry's hand shot out, closing around his wrist.

Henry looked up at George, saying something too quietly to be overheard. Emily leaned back so that she was out of sight. When she cautiously peeked, all she could see was George bending over Henry, their faces close-

Emily swung back, her cheeks alight with color. Good heavens! George's intent had been unmistakable - he had meant to kiss Henry! She took several steps away, fanning herself with her hand.

It seemed as if the boys were _occupied_. Perhaps she could give them just a few more minutes…

Emily spun back around. Who was she kidding? This chance might never come again! …

…

…

…

…

Henry lay back against the hospital bed, letting George's stream of nonsense wash over him, lulling him into a state of calm.

"And then I told her that if she was just going to let Aunt Dahlia walk all over her, then it was no wonder what Aunt Rose had gotten up to with the gentleman callers at bingo night. Aunt Nettle agreed with me, and of course Aunt Briony may have started crying again, but that was about a rather ancillary matter, I believe, and-"

Henry would much rather listen to George prattle on about his aunts for the rest of his life than remember what had been done to him, and what he had done to get past it. But there was still something he needed to say, especially one of them came to his senses and this precious time alone with George was wasted. "George."

George, in full swing, didn't quite hear him. "Of course, the reverend was most amused by this, even though he wouldn't let on. I think Aunt Begonia was in his camp, however. I saw them snickering over the pie table-"

" _George."_

"But Aunt _Primrose,_ now-"

" _George Crabtree!"_

George jumped as if stuck by a pin, eyes wide. "Don't - don't _say_ that Henry!" He glanced around, nervous, as if Huxley might hear it and then race in to finish his game. "Just...just stick to my first name, all right?"

Henry gave him a tired smile. He hadn't slept since he'd come to consciousness after being brained by Kleppens when poking about the old foundry. He'd been far too concerned with staying alive, and not losing hope. "It doesn't matter now, George. I'm fine. I'm _safe."_

George gave him that look as if he didn't quite believe it, and Henry resigned himself to being mothered for the next few weeks. Maybe months, depending on how seriously George took it.

Henry sighed. "I'm serious, George. But I...I wanted to apologize. For before. I was wrong. I...I made a mistake. I shouldn't have argued with you, and I shouldn't have ever made a go for Emily, even if she wasn't your girl anymore. I wasn't thinking, I just-"

"Henry," George interrupted him, an odd look on his face. "Why did you choose my surname for your safeword?"

Henry froze. After the events of the last two days he'd thought he couldn't be frightened again for at least a solid week, but he now learned that he was wrong. "What?"

"My name. Your word. Why?"

Henry swallowed thickly. "I…" He trailed off, trying not to look at George when he could _feel_ his cheeks flushing with heat. "I was thinking about our argument when they caught me. I just...it was the first thing I could think of. Especially as I never say anything but your first name, George. I figured I'd never say Crabtree, even on accident."

George leaned back. "Is that so?" He said carefully. "Well, then. Don't you start saying it now, then."

When he didn't say anything else, Henry glanced over at him out of the corner of his eye. His best friend sat there with an indecipherable expression. He, who was in every other respect as easily read as one of his books! Henry swallowed nervously, unsure what that meant. Had George expected some other answer? Or had even that little been enough to make him uncomfortable?

"Did I do something wrong?" He finally asked. "Does it make you uncomfortable that I chose you?"

Not until the words were out of his mouth did he realize what he'd said, and by then it was too late to even wince. His heart began pounding in his chest as he lambasted himself in a mixture of English and French. Stupid, he was so stupid! Now even _George_ might get it, might understand that he didn't just mean his name as his safeword, but _him_ as the object of his affections!

All the while George watched him with wide eyes, brows drawn into that familiar look of concentration. "Not at all, Henry," he finally answered. "If I could have looked past the fear of losing you, I suppose I would have been honored."

Henry sucked in a deep breath. Now not only was his heart pounding, but his brain scrambling to make sense of all this. How deeply could he look into George's words? As deeply as George may be looking into his own? Was this truly happening? Or was this simply a charged moment between two friends, afraid they might have lost each other forever?

Uncertainty stilled his tongue, and all he could do was stare at George, waiting for him to take charge as he so often did. Finally George heaved a sigh and gave Henry a rueful smile. "I suppose I have an apology of my own," he admitted. "I shouldn't have gotten so upset about you and Dr. Grace. I...may have lost my noggin, a bit. And I dearly regret suspending our friendship, so...friends again?"

Henry's lips quirked in an answering smile. "We never stopped being friends, George. I don't think that's how friendship works."

"Well, now," George drawled. "I'm not so sure about that. But I'm glad to hear it, Henry. Now, I think I'm probably needed down at the stationhouse…"

He stood up, planning to make his goodbyes and Henry lost his head. It was all too much. The capture, the...torture, and now George walking away… He reached out and grabbed his wrist, looking up with pleading eyes as he entreated, "I don't want to be alone. Please, George. I - I can't…"

George hesitated, that unfathomable expression settling over his face again. "Where didn't Huxley touch you?"

Henry blinked. "What?"

Now George looked almost angry. "Did he touch your forehead?"

Henry frowned, utterly confused. "No…?"

"Good," George muttered, before he leaned in. Henry felt it all as if time itself slowed for each of his movements. George bent down, bypassing Henry's suddenly dry mouth to press a chaste kiss to his forehead, lingering there until it felt as if all the blood in Henry's body collected in his cheeks. By the time his heart and lungs caught up with him - one pounding, the other feeling as if they might never draw in enough air again - George had pulled away, seating himself back by Henry's side, his own cheeks flushed as he looked anywhere but at him.

Henry blinked, trying to make sense of all this. Had George just kissed him? His breath stuttered, yet he was too shocked to be worried. Surely, it couldn't be a bad thing that George had done that, even if it was like a father to a child. Perhaps it meant that Henry could hope, even if just a little?

"I'll stay with you until you sleep," George announced, still blushing to beat the band. "And that was...well, what I mean to say is...that you'll have sweeter dreams tonight. Ki-kisses are like talismans, you know. And the head is where you store all your memories, of course, so now you'll just remember good things, and-"

Henry gripped George's hand and squeezed, shutting his eyes before he did something unmanly and embarrassing, like cry, or pull him down and kiss him for real.

"Thank you, George," he whispered. "I think you're right - I'll have fine dreams tonight."

…

…

…

…

…

 **Am currently seeking out yet another pt job (arghhh my life) to add to my plethora of pt work, so updates may be sporadic for a bit. Still, I have all but the last chapter (and it's an epilogue/bonus chapter) so I promise there is more to come!**

 **After all, George and Henry have not quite straightened it all out yet... ;)**


	6. Chapter 6

**Season 10 is announced! Well done, Canada. Well done.**

 **(Can we bring back crazy Gillies? I liked him. And the stupidly attractive man who plays him, haha.)**

* * *

 **Chapter 6:**

 **The case is closed, yet when gossipping does not go as planned, Emily Grace takes matters into her own hands. After some reluctance, George offers his assistance, and Henry accepts.**

* * *

After the momentous events the night of the capture, the Huxley murders wrapped themselves up with little fanfare. While Joe Kleppens glared the interrogators down with an evil insouciance, Theodore Huxley babbled with a manic relief. He told them everything: from his escape, his installation in Toronto, meeting Rolf Schmidt through a friend, and Joe Kleppens through him. How it had begun so differently, with everything how it should have been. Boundaries had been respected, and all had gone their separate ways at the end of each session.

But then Rolf had brought a lady friend, and Joe had gotten carried away. After her death they had panicked. They had knocked Rolf out before sinking her body in a river, and when they returned Joe had talked Huxley into a new sort of play. He was a murderer again, and there was nothing else he could do. Kleppens's appetite had been whetted and the madness tied to Huxley's old crime awoken, and they had begun a new, terrible game.

They had captured several others in short order: Susannah Stone from an old circle of Huxley's acquaintances, and then shortly after, Marie Coldwell from the same circle. Around the same time Kleppens took an interest in Anna Meyers from the hockey league, and she too was taken. Then came Simon Wilkes, who had asked after Anna, noticing she had disappeared after a game.

Kevin Sawyer and Evelyn Haydn sealed their fates when she allowed him to walk her home after a hockey game, dark as it was and in a rough neighborhood. They lived across the street from each other, and Evelyn had been old school friends with his girl. It was entirely innocent, yet Kleppens had been inflamed by jealousy and captured them both. They had proved his most sincere disappointments, however. Evelyn had used her safeword within three days, and Kevin even sooner than that. They had not lasted long enough to play with, and he had taken his disappointment out on Susannah and Simon.

Henry had been the last, and because he had been poking around the foundry. The purse proved to be their undoing. Huxley insisted on being meticulous with his captures, forcing himself and Kleppens to follow a set of rules. Once the safe word was established, the word was written on a card and delivered either to their home, office, or left among their effects. While he had been content with allowing Joe to slip the cards under the doors of the other's apartments - save Sawyer, whom he hated - he had gone to a special effort for Susannah, with whom he had been friends before his madness had taken hold. He placed hers within her purse and left it where she had dropped it, allowing for it to have been found and delivered to the police.

When asked why he had done all this Huxley had simply looked at Murdoch. With empty blue eyes, he admitted it was because he loved them.

…

…

...

Marie Coldwell died two days later of internal injuries. Anna Meyers was released from the hospital several days after that. Theodore Huxley and Joseph Kleppens were to face trial two weeks from that day, but only Huxley ever made it there. Kleppens was killed in prison by his fellow inmates, and in a very similar manner to how he had tortured his own victims.

…

…

…

Higgins returned to the station house five days after he was captured, physically none the worse for wear. His uniform was a bit scuffed, and there was a heaviness in his step that hadn't been there a week ago, but he was sound in body, forthright as ever, and enthusiastic to get back to work.

As soon as he'd walked in the door George had started smiling, and two days later felt as if he hadn't stopped once. Everything seemed _different_ now that Henry was back. Part of it could be the general good feeling of having caught a terrible sequential murderer, but that didn't rightly explain the happiness in George's chest every time he glanced up and saw Higgins back at his desk. It just felt so right to see him there, even doing something so mundane as compiling fingermarks, or checking through old directories, or glancing up with a look of his own just to see George staring at him for the umpteenth time-

George glanced down at his typewriter, cheeks pinking. Well, maybe it wasn't the _umpteenth_ time, per say. More like the 14th. And sure, it was only noon, but didn't a man have the right to look at his best friend? Surely he didn't need to be as shy as a schoolgirl here. It was Henry! They looked at each other all the time! Nothing out of the ordinary about that!

But there had been something out of the ordinary when he had sat with him in the hospital, hadn't there? George scowled down into his typewriter, pretending to be suffering from writer's block. Something out of the ordinary indeed, and it had preyed upon his waking - and sleeping - thoughts until he thought he might go a little mad from it.

George had kissed him. Kissed Henry. Right on the forehead! Put his lips right to him, and then stayed there as if doing so might calm the riot of feelings inside of him, the happiness and nervousness that seemed fit to overwhelm him. He had blathered on about talismans later, and Henry, the good sport, had gone along with it. But surely he must have been inconvenienced? Men didn't kiss other men, not like that. So why had George? Worse, why did the memory of doing so make him weak at the knees and giddy as a churchmarm fit to swoon?

 _Have you ever thought about kissing him? Sleeping beside him?_ He remembered Emily's words and sighed. How had she known? Well, not that he had then. Much. Ok, not that he'd ever _meant_ to, but sometimes Henry would look at him with that impish look in his eye and George's stomach would swoop and his mouth would run dry and then the little bird between _his_ legs would prickle with undeniable interest. But those times had been few and far between. _Mostly._ He was certainly thinking about it now, however. With a vengeance! Every 15 minutes, it felt like!

Something needed to be done. George needed to overcome this fixation on his best friend before he did something foolish and Henry found out. They had just reinstated their friendship, and what kind of friend made such a move at a time like this? Besides, Henry had only just escaped the clutches of a maddened killer, for pete's sake!

A maddened killer who had hurt Henry, George reminded himself. Touched him. Sucked on his neck. Perhaps even kissed him. All without Henry's consent! George's vivid imagination supplied enough to understand what it would be like to be helpless and taken advantage of. And yet here he was, daydreaming about something only a few steps removed from that! Worst of all, it had been a _man_ who had done all that to Henry. Henry would be all the more disgusted to learn that George, a man himself, wanted to do much of the same to him…

He could imagine just how the conversation might go.

 _Henry?_

 _Yes, George?_

 _Now, I know that you're a normal, God-fearing man who's recently been accosted by a homosexual male, but still I find myself wanting to… to kiss you._

 _What?_ Kiss _me?_

 _Well, yes, Henry. And not just on the mouth, mind you._

 _George!_

 _I'm sorry, Henry! I've just...I've come to care for you, and when I think about what that man has done to you…_

 _No, don't touch me! That's disgusting, George!_

George sighed disconsolately. Perhaps it would have been better if he'd never learned of his attraction for Henry if it meant he'd be helpless to do anything about it… For the 15th time that day he snuck a glance up at Henry, only to find he _and_ Jackson avidly staring at him, as if they were watching one of those moving picture shows.

"Jackson!" He yelped. "What are you two doing, staring at me like that?"

"Does he always do that?" Jackson ignored him, asking Henry in apparent fascination.

"Do what? What do I do?"

"You're having conversations with yourself in your head again, George," Henry explained. "And yeah, he does it about once every other day. More so when he's writing his novels."

Jackson shook his head. "Oh, for dialogue? Does he always do those faces? Huh. No wonder you worked so hard to be seated across from him. With expressions like that, you'll never be bored!"

Although he had come into the conversation a bit late George knew enough to be affronted. His eyebrows drew in, but before he could voice his displeasure Henry smiled, and it was the coy, knowing kind of smile that had always made his breath catch and warmth pool in his groin.

"That's certainly one of the reasons," Henry allowed, while never taking his eyes off of George.

George swallowed and shifted his legs underneath the table. Desperately he tried to think of anything and everything that might quell his burgeoning erection. Cold showers, Inspector Brackenreid yelling, Inspector Brackenreid yelling in the _shower..._

"I'm sorry boys, but I'll need to borrow George for a moment. Detective Murdoch wants his assistance with something down in the morgue." As if sent by the Lord above, Emily stood above him, smiling at Jackson and Henry. "I'll have him back as soon as possible."

George looked up at her, and her barely restrained excitement was somehow what managed to tamp down his feelings of arousal. Well, that was certainly a first. The day an attractive woman managed to shake him from that a sexual stupor was one he never saw coming. Then again, he never thought he'd be wrangling with an obsessive attraction for his best friend, either…

Henry nodded, all trace of amusement wiped from his face as if it'd never been. Jackson was much more gracious. "Of course, Doctor. Hope it's not for anything serious, however. George has been a bit...distracted today."

George scowled. "Not a word about those faces, Jackson. I'm warning you!"

Emily smiled, used to their foolishness. Henry, however, did not. In fact, he looked almost a touch petulant, and for some reason, this only made Emily's smile grow… Confused, George stood, determined to get to the bottom of this. Perhaps they could talk on the way to the morgue?

"Lead on, Doctor," he invited. Yet before he took a step away he looked at Jackson. "Make sure he doesn't go _anywhere,"_ he said, pointing to Henry. "Don't let him out of your _sight."_

Jackson's eyes widened. "Uh. Sure, George. I'll uh, keep an eye on Henry for you."

George nodded seriously. "Good."

Ahead of him, Emily giggled. Meanwhile, Henry muttered something in French before putting his head down on the desk.

…

…

…

…

…

Emily's smile was practically stretching off her face by the time they reached the morgue, and she couldn't disguise the excited bounce in her step. Barely had the door closed behind them when she gripped George by the forearms, and asked him as seriously as she could, "So? How is it with Henry?"

George gave her an uncomfortable look, somewhat offset by his lopsided smile. "Ah. We've quite made up, as you might have seen. Don't worry, we won't be fighting over you again. I apologize for the inconvenience."

Emily chuckled at George's odd, yet sweet way of putting things. "Well I should say not! Now that the two of you have properly... _talked things out_ I'd imagine such misunderstandings might not arise in the future. Well, at least including me." She winked before letting him go, sitting in a chair and crossing her ankles. "But enough about that. Tell me _everything."_

She thought her invitation to gossip quite clear, but still George looked confused. He even looked around the morgue as if wondering…"Doctor Grace, where is the detective? I thought I was needed for something?"

Emily waved off his concern. "I lied. I thought it more imperative that we gossip. Otherwise you might spend the whole week swooning over Henry like a lovesick schoolgirl."

He reddened before sputtering, "I - I have done no such thing. Now, see here, Emily-"

"George, George, _George,"_ she sang. "Do not even try to lie to me. I know you boys better than most know the back of their hand. And so I have a very serious question for you." She leaned in and raised an eyebrow. "How many times have you two kissed?"

That was the moment that George nearly fell over the railing, and whatever else happened, Emily thought it was a gossip session well spent.

"Emily!" He sounded shocked, but the flush creeping down his neck only proved her point.

"That _is_ my name," she informed him archly. "But my question stands. Was it just the once? Or have the two of you indulged since then?" Her eyes lit up at the possibilities. "Or perhaps you might even have a _system?"_

"System? What on _earth…?"_ George sputtered, eyes blown wide with panic. "Now, see here Em-" He cut off abruptly, realizing what she had said. "More than the once?" He repeated. "What does _that_ mean?"

Emily tried her best to look bashful, but she was enjoying herself far too much. The thought of Henry and George in an illicit romance was just far too delicious for her to behave herself! "I was at the hospital the night Huxley was captured. Julia asked me to check in on you two before I left. So I did, and well…"

George took a deep breath, his face contorting into several conflicting expression. Emily had always found his facial olympics intriguing, but now he was really outdoing himself.

"Emily," he finally said. "I think you misunderstood. The kiss that you saw...it was a talisman. To keep bad dreams away. My aunts did it all the time when I was boy!"

Emily's nose scrunched. "Your aunts used to kiss you like that?"

"It was on the forehead! There's nothing wrong with forehead kisses!"

She thought back to the angle, and how she had whipped out of sight before she had actually seen the kiss. "Ahh. I see. I may be a bit premature with my congratulations, then."

"I should say so!" George agreed, put out. "That is to say there's no need for congratulations. At all. And furthermore-"

"Then why haven't you kissed him properly?" She interrupted him. "What's to keep you from kissing him properly _right now?"_

Now George was properly scandalized. "Emily! We are _on duty!"_

She sighed, showing him with her expression that she was not amused. "That won't be the case tonight, George. Or tomorrow night. Or the whole of Sunday, for that matter. So let's try this again. Why are you two not acting on the most obvious attraction anyone in station house four has ever seen?"

"Well now, I actually think that might go to the detective and Doctor Ogden," George argued. "You weren't there, but I assure you the two of them were very obvious about their smittendom. Is that a word? And Detective Murdoch pined up a storm when she was married to Garland, and-"

" _George,"_ Emily growled. "Don't prevaricate. Have you even told him how you feel?"

When he suddenly found the ceiling of the morgue to be of utmost interest, Emily knew that he had not. "George!"

"Well how can I?" He suddenly burst out. "After all that's happened? He'll be disgusted! And rightly so! It was a man that hurt him, Emily. How could he get past that so soon? If ever?"

"It didn't seem to bother him in the hospital," she pointed out. "And he certainly seems fine with sitting across from you while you stare at him all day."

"Emily, I have already told you about how that was a _talisman_ and a magical protection procedure. And I'm not staring _all_ day, I'm just...just keeping my eye on him, is all."

Knowing that out arguing her friend was a lot like arguing the finer details of Roman Catholicism with the Pope, Emily enacted drastic measures. "George Crabtree, if you don't talk this out with Henry - or kiss him, I don't care which! - by Monday morning, _I_ will."

George paled, but jutted his chin defiantly. "Henry won't believe you if you tell him, Emily. He just won't."

She smiled evilly. "No, perhaps not. So I'll just have to kiss him myself then. See what all the fuss is about."

George stood, and all his affable humor was gone as if it never existed. Now his expression was dark as a thundercloud, and Emily felt a frisson of excitement. Was this how he looked when he was fighting for the one he loved? Henry was a lucky man indeed, yet Emily couldn't mourn the loss of his affections. Not when it resulted in such a delicious show!

"You stand down, Emily Grace. You can't come between us like that!"

"I don't want to," she assured him. "But I will. _Unless you move first_."

George held her stare for a moment, energy crackling between them. Then, with a growl, he left the morgue. Emily sat back in her chair, breathing deeply. My, that had been something! She could only imagine - and imagine _well -_ what George might do to Henry while in that state...or what Henry might require of George in return!

She sighed happily, a little trickle of heat warming her thighs. Well, she certainly knew what she would be reflecting upon this evening before bed! Yet then a thought occurred to her. What if George _didn't_ go through with it?

Emily winced. She would just have to hope he did. Otherwise, it would be an awkward Monday for all involved...

…

…

…

…

…

Henry wasn't sure just how much more of this he could take. He had been back for nearly a full week now, and if George didn't cease either his hovering or the absolutely adorable startled blushes whenever he caught him staring, Henry was about to run mad. _One or the other, George,_ he wanted to tell him. Either things had to go back to how they used to be or they had to change entirely, but one had to be chosen.

Henry knew what he wanted. He was prepared to leave behind the safety of their friendship, and had been toeing the line since George had kissed him in the hospital. That decision had been made when his best friend had cut him down from Huxley's table and looked at him as if Henry were his piece of heaven on earth, and that he had nearly lost it.

Since then, he had spent as much time as he could discreetly eyeing and chatting George up like he was a pretty girl at a church dance, and there was no way his friend could be completely unaware of it. _Jackson_ was starting to give him calculating looks, for heaven's sake. How could George be so oblivious to him, unless his avoidance was his silent answer to Henry's veiled pursuit?

To be fair, George _had_ been distracted as of late. Henry scowled. That likely had something to do with Doctor Grace. The last few days she had been hovering in the pen, giving George pointed looks and leaving little notes on his desk. Henry had caught sight of one but all it had said was Monday, both bolded and underlined several times. Henry was unsure what _that_ was all about, seeing as how those notes always seemed to put George into a cold sweat, rather than a lather of excitement. He suspected George was putting something off, or at the very least was nervous about something. But what might it have to do with Doctor Grace?

Henry both did and didn't want to know, rather desperately.

At least he'd have all day tomorrow to cool down. All he had planned was to attend a late mass at St. James with Jackson, and that was more to help his friend talk to a girl than to admire the brevity of the pastor's sermon. Of course, it would be another long night until then, with very little sleep punctuated by long periods of restlessness. He hadn't slept well since his rescue, and only part of it was due to the current situation with George. The rest was all thanks to that bastard Huxley and his assistant Kleppens.

Henry knew he had been lucky. He could have been killed straightaway but Huxley had found his boyish good looks were to his taste. As soon as he had regained consciousness that first night he had been forced to watch, however. Huxley had spent a long time carving out twisting, senseless patterns on Marie's back and legs, cooing to her as he did so. He had then taken his time sating himself between Anna's thighs, ignoring her pleas in favor of watching Henry's expression. Henry had struggled all throughout, swearing more viciously than he'd ever before. Yet he'd been tied securely down and when dawn came, Huxley had merely patted his cheek before the women and he had been knocked out with a dosage of chloral hydrate.

He'd come to the next night with Huxley's hand on the most intimate part of him, the old man licking his lips as he fondled him. To his credit, it had taken Huxley a long, long time to force him to grow. In the meanwhile he had gripped Henry tightly enough to bruise around the shoulder, his waist, even his hip. He had even tried to kiss him, biting his lip roughly when Henry still did not react.

He threatened to rape one of the women again, but Henry had not been tricked. Huxley had done so many times, and would continue to do so again with or without his compliance. He would be strong, and he would not say his safeword, no matter what happened…

But then Huxley had put his mouth on him, and even Henry's will wavered. Although he fought it, the heat and warmth surrounding him was too much. He found that it was better to close his eyes and think of George, pretend it was he who was coaxing him closer to orgasm. Perhaps he could do so all throughout his captivity, and make it all a little more bearable?

Now he wished he had held out just a little longer. For just after Huxley had finished with him, leaving him weak and sagging against the table, Kleppens had gone upstairs to investigate the disturbance outside. Barely ten minutes after that George had come, saving Henry from his own scarification and from being forced to slake Huxley's own lusts.

He had been lucky indeed. Yet the only way he had of combatting his memories and the dirty feel of having given in - even if just for a moment - was to think about George. His eyes that night, burning with rage; his talisman kiss; even all his stories about his Newfoundland aunts. Yet at night he thought of George in new ways to keep the horror of his molestation at bay. George's lips on his own, burning away the touch of Huxley's. His hands on his body, covering up the bruises left behind. And his mouth on his cock, licking away all memory of any other…

Not for the first time that day, Henry shifted in his seat. He knew that it wasn't rational, that it was his desperation riding him just as deeply as his desire, but right now he needed George, and he needed him badly. Almost enough to force the issue, speaking plainly enough to get an answer once and for all. Even if George told him no. Then, at least he'd be able to start over and stop tormenting himself with these unrealized dreams. Then again, their friendship would be forever changed, and George might not be so comfortable with him afterwards…

His shift ended quietly, with Detective Murdoch murmuring his polite goodbyes along with the inspector's boisterous ones. Henry sighed as he collected his things, straightening his desk. George had been called away to the morgue almost an hour ago, and no one seemed to mind that he was not where he was supposed to be. No one but him, apparently, and come Monday Henry had the terrible feeling that George was going to announce that he and Emily were going steady again. He had to be ready to be happy for his friend. He had to be prepared.

"Higgins!"

Henry's head whipped around, his heart lurching in his chest. George cleared the bend at quite a clip, only slowing down to snatch his hat from his desk. He gave Henry a jaunty smile, as if utterly delighted to have caught him at the end of their shifts.

Henry swallowed down his answering smile. "Yes, George?"

George fixed his hat firmly on his head, fixing the dorky chinstrap in place. "I know we're off duty, but I feel like walking you home. Are you ready to go?"

Henry felt as if he was torn between giddy happiness and being smothered, once again. "George, I live five minutes away. I can get there on my own, you know."

His friend glanced over at him, and he was struck by how determined he looked. "Not tonight, Henry. Besides, I have something I'd like to run by you."

Henry inwardly groaned. He wasn't sure he was up to the walk - short as it was - if it was to be spent hearing all about Doctor Grace. Still, there was nothing for it. He sighed as he followed George out, preparing himself for what was undoubtedly to be the conversation that wrecked his newly risen hopes.

Yet it seemed as if George was in no hurry to begin. The two men rambled down the street towards Henry's apartment, and apart from thumbing nervously at the buttons on his jacket, George had very little to contribute to the walk. Finally, Henry turned to him and asked, "What's this all about, George?"

He gave him an odd look that Henry couldn't quite read, not with how dark out it was. "I just wanted...well, in light of _recent events,_ I just wanted to offer my services. You know. In case you, erm, needed anything."

Henry tilted his head to the side. What was _that_ supposed to mean? "Like what?"

George gave him one of those hopelessly endearing confused looks. "I'm sorry?"

They could be here all night with this, but Henry knew best how to herd his friend along. "I meant, what exactly am I needing, George?"

George glanced away from him before swallowing thickly. Henry tracked his nervousness and down in the pit of his stomach, hope began to bloom once more.

"Well, you know. Anything at all, I suppose. All I know is that you've just been through a ghastly, traumatic event, and as your best friend, I'm here for you. Even if the, um, the help required is a bit strange. Outside the norm, you might say. Perhaps even a bit unbiblical. But what I am trying to say here is that I am prepared to render any assistance you may need, any at all, as long as...as long as…"

Hope was now roaring inside of him like a bonfire and Henry could barely hear the noise from the street, he was so focused on George's words. They stood like wooden indians in front of his boardinghouse, yet he could do nothing else when George Crabtree was awkwardly offering himself up to him.

"As long as what, George?" He asked, his voice dipping low with emotion.

It was enough to make his friend meet his gaze. "As long as you need me," he admitted. "As long as you want me to...to help."

For a moment Henry could only stare at him as all his long-denied feelings and newfound hopes coalesced into something unbearably bright and beautiful. But then George glanced nervously over at the boardinghouse and Henry found that it was easier than he expected to step out into the unknown.

"Come upstairs with me, George," he said.

George did.

...

...

...

...

...

 **Good boy, George. Good boy.**

 **I'm sorry for the long wait! I had some real life and original fic brouhaha to straighten out, but hopefully all has been settled for the better.**

 **The next two chapters will be NSFW, so you might as well get used to the idea now… ;)**


	7. Epilogue 1

**NSFW loving ahead :)**

* * *

 **Epilogue 1: George and Henry**

 **Explicit fruition of love between our favorite constables, and Henry has a heck of a lot of feelings. Also, George is adorable.**

* * *

George shut the door behind him, his heart pounding a hundred times per minute, it felt like. He'd never been this nervous, not even the night Emily had asked him to stay with her. Then there had been duty, and guidelines, and social mores set in place to show him just how to act, to think, to feel. Now, standing in his stockinged feet in Henry's surprisingly clean apartment, George felt unmoored. He had no idea what he was to do now, no idea what, exactly, Henry would ask of him. Yet he knew for certain that whatever it was he would do it, and that more than likely, it would put a good measure of joy and desire into his heart to do so.

This was his best friend. His Henry. And whatever he needed to do to keep him happy, he would.

Yet now that he was finally here Henry seemed determined to potter about his living room. "I'd offer you something but we both know we'd have to go to a tavern for dinner," he explained, nervously shucking off his uniform jacket. He crossed the room to his chest of drawers to withdraw a new shirt and pants to replace his uniform pants and white cotton undershirt.

"Quite all right, Henry," George decided magnanimously. He wondered at how awkward things could be after so many years of friendship. All because George had offered to kiss him. Had offered to more than kiss him.

Wait. He _had_ made that clear, hadn't he?

"Er, Henry?"

Henry turned, but didn't quite meet his eye. In the dim light of the lamp, George could see that his cheeks were a bit pink. "Yes, George?"

Feeling a bit weightless and more than a little giddy, George decided that there was some truth to that old saying about pennies and pounds. "May I start with the helping now?"

Henry took a step closer, swallowing thickly. "And by helping, you mean…?"

The men were nearly of a height with each other, so there was no mistaking George's gaze dropping down to Henry's mouth. _By kissing you,_ he meant to say, but what came out was quite different. "I keep thinking about Huxley touching you," he admitted. "I can't stand it. It's just not right. I wish I could...could undo it all, but-"

"You can," Henry interrupted, stepping closer still. "You did in the hospital with your talisman. That helped a lot, George."

"Then that is what I shall do," George announced a trifle breathlessly. "In hopes of helping again." His head felt as if it were spinning and he could feel his heartbeat down in his toes, but this was the good kind of excitement, not the bad. Before his courage left him he pressed up on his toes so that he could plant a kiss on Henry's forehead.

Brave enough, he'd thought, but Henry's quiet snicker brought him back down to his heels. He was prepared to be offended but Henry's eyes were wide and dark, so different from usual. It made George's mouth run dry, and tingles shoot through his stomach.

"Do you need more assistance?" He asked, intending to be arch about it but his voice wavered a little. Henry nodded slowly, solemnly before turning his face to the side, presenting his cheek.

"Kiss my cheek, George."

George's own cheeks heated when he leaned in, softly pressing his lips to Henry's cheekbone. He lingered a little, dizzied by the strength of Henry's jaw and by his clean, masculine scent, so different than the girls he'd kissed. Different, but not bad - in fact, the entire situation was making George want to put his arms around him and tumble into this new experience, letting go of his sanity in the process.

Finally he leaned back and Henry turned slowly to face him. There was something searching and direct in his gaze, and had George harbored any final misgivings, they would have been undone.

"Anywhere else?" He asked, his voice as wrecked as he felt.

Henry's eyes burned as he said, "Kiss my mouth, George."

Arousal flared in his stomach, and he leaned in before he could second guess himself. George clumsily pressed his lips against Henry's, closing his eyes and surrendering himself. This, too was different. His lips weren't soft and pillowy like Emily's, but there was an attraction all the same in the firm line of them. And when they moved against his it felt too good to worry any further over, and suddenly George wasn't in control at all.

Henry surged against him, backing him into the wall. George hit it with a quiet thud and a quick inhalation of breath, and then Henry was kissing him fiercely, lips slanting over his own with a decidedly possessive cast. George melted against him, body thrumming at the thrill of it. This was no soft maiden to be gentle with. This was someone as strong as he, with desires that were stoked in precisely the same way. Someone he could be as rough with and would be rough in turn…

Just when their kiss gained a measure of control, Henry nipped at George's full lower lip with his teeth. It drew forth a rumbling groan, and George clutched at Henry's hips, pulling him closer. Henry retaliated by lapping at the seam of George's lips with his tongue, sliding between to slip it into his own mouth.

George answered in kind, always one step behind him. He felt as if he were fumbling along in a delicious haze, but couldn't care so long as Henry was the one doing this to him. Slowly he learned to twine his tongue along Henry's, eventually growing bold enough to nip at and suck at Henry's lips, as well. He was rewarded with low, throaty moans, barely hushed to keep from travelling through the thin walls. George's head spun with a mixture of pleasure and elation. He felt as if he were floating, and the only thing keeping him down to earth was Henry's mouth, his hands, his hips.

" _George,"_ Henry mumbled as he kissed a line from his mouth to his ear. "You taste so good. _Feel_ so good…" He trailed off in favor of letting his tongue twine around the shell of his ear, and George shivered against him. He let out an unmanly mewl of delight when Henry's teeth scraped lightly against his earlobe, taking it between his teeth and then sucking on it.

Henry let out a dark chuckle at his response. "You're so cute, George. You make me want to do this to you all night…" With one more tug his mouth trailed down, until he was licking and sucking on George's neck.

Instinctively George's head tilted to give him better access. He was in no mind to stop anything that felt this good, but something about what Henry said made him think. This wasn't for his sake, after all. It was for Henry's. And so shouldn't it be him doing things to Henry to make him feel this good, and not the other way around?

Mind made up, George lifted his hands to the loops of Henry's suspenders, tugging them off with little care. Henry never left off from nipping at George's neck, even as he shimmied out of his suspenders. He did pause, however, when George brought his hand to his waistband, struggling with the buttons.

George had only gotten one free when Henry's hand closed over his. "You don't have to," he whispered, and although George could see the shape of Henry's excitement pressing up against the cloth, he was caught more by the vulnerability in his voice. George hesitated. Was this moving too quickly? They were both men, and he'd just assumed it might be all right. He'd assumed this was the proper way to fix him…

But then Henry continued, "You don't have to if you don't want to. We can just kiss, George. Is that ok?"

George drew up to his full height and his sternest expression. "Now see here, Henry Higgins. I mean to touch all of you in exactly the same way Huxley did, and then...and then even more besides! I'm going to...to make you forget everything that man did to you," he continued, somewhat nervously. Then, a horrible thought occurred to him. "Unless you don't want me to?"

Henry froze, his green eyes nearly black with desire. Then he took one step away from George, back towards the bed. George thought that he'd said the wrong thing until Henry grabbed the straps of George's own suspenders, pulling him along with him.

"I told you I pretended it was someone else," he murmured, and George knew he was speaking of when Huxley touched him. "I pretended it was you, George." He gave him a little wry smile, but the heat in his eyes was making it hard to look away. "I've always pretended it was you."

George lost his head. " _Henry,"_ he breathed, before their mouths crashed into one another, and both fell back to the bed.

…

…

…

Henry had never found unbuttoning his pants to be such a desperate, arduous task, but when George was writhing above him, his weight and enthusiasm pushing him down into his bed, he found it was so. George seemed to be everywhere, and Henry was half-drowning in the feel of him, the scent of him, and most of all, his _intent._ His promise still rang in his ears, and all of Henry's deep-seated caution seemed to fly right out the window.

Finally the blasted pants were off, and it was quick work to shuck off his shirt, leaving him in just his underclothes. Yet he wanted George to be naked as well, so he tugged off his suspenders and brought his hands to his waistband. His heart warmed when George let him unbutton him. Something else warmed when George let him cup his hand around his erection and squeeze.

George tilted his head back, gasping for air. Henry smiled wickedly up at him before slowly divesting himself of his underthings as well. He waited for George to look right at him before shoving the unbuttoned union suit past his shoulders, gauging his expression when it cleared his hips, and then his knees.

Then Henry was stark naked before him, and his heart was pounding in his chest. It was one thing to be naked with someone, feeling triply vulnerable after his capture. But to be naked in front of _George_ who was staring at him with an open-mouthed hunger? Henry shifted up on the bed, watching George's eyes swoop down to his rod. It made his own breath catch in his throat, and him uncharacteristically gentle when he brought George's hands up to his throat to begin unbuttoning his own underclothes.

"Are you sure, George?" He asked one last time when he had undone enough buttons to shove his union suit down past his shoulders.

"Henry," George responded in that familiar, long-suffering tone. "I have never been so disposed to sin in my entire life. I can hardly _breathe_ I want you so much. Please stop asking if I am sure, or I shall be insulted."

Then he was kicking off his underclothes and Henry couldn't help but stare at him. In particular _his little bird,_ as George was prone to call them when they'd had a few too many at the pub. It must be something Newfoundlandish, or auntish, or simply Georgish, but Henry thought that it fit. At least, it did when one was flaccid. Now that he was largely erect, stretching out with a curved grace from a nest of tight, dark curls, Henry could think of nothing at all other than his desire to touch him.

Yet in this he was foiled. George lunged atop him and pinned him down, balancing himself on the mattress with one hand. The other he snaked down between them, tracing little patterns on his belly. Henry wiggled, ticklish. From the triumphant cast to George's smile, Henry figured that was probably his aim.

Then he leaned down to lay a kiss on the faded bruise on his shoulder, then his waist, and then, with a small amount of hesitation, his hip. Henry's own little bird twitched in response, jerking towards the source of heat that made pleasure pool in his belly. But prim George surged back up, kissing Henry soundly before asking, "Where else did he touch you?"

This time he didn't hesitate. "First he put his hand on me."

George's face darkened, and with a distinctively competitive air he said, "Hold still, Henry." He reached down between them again, yet this time did not stop at his stomach. He glanced down when he got close, and so both men watched his hand tentatively wrap around his member. One gentle tug, and then another, and then Henry's head fell back against his pillow when George announced, "I do believe you're thicker than me, Henry. But not longer. And without any curve, I see."

"It's not a contest, George," Henry replied, torn between laughter and coming right then and there. He bucked up a little into George's hand, causing the man to reflexively grip him a little tighter. "But it feels good. _Oh._ So good-"

George sped up his pace. The pressure was still a bit gentle for Henry's liking, but the fact that George was touching him, bringing him closer with that expression of rapt concentration on his face more than made up for it.

In fact, it was making things move along a little too quickly. After waiting so long Henry was more than a bit greedy. Just in case this was some fever dream, he needed to stretch it out. So he reached down past George's moving hand, fingertips brushing against George's cock, twisting so he held him more firmly. Above him George groaned as he momentarily lost his rhythm.

 _Always so vocal,_ Henry thought deliriously. And then he thrust up into George's hand, taking care to match the movement of his hand in time with his thrusts.

"Henry, stop - this is...this is for you, not me."

"I'm enjoying myself, George," he muttered, eyes flicking over his partner's body, his face; noting his expression keenly. "And I want you to feel good too." He emphasized that with a healthy tug on George's cock, revelling in his gasp. He thrust down into Henry's hand, harder, but then he pulled back entirely, taking quick, deep breaths in order to bring himself back from the brink.

With wild eyes George asked, "What else? What else did he do to you?"

The right thing was to say nothing at all, and let this interlude continue the way it had been. The wrong thing - albeit the truthful one - was moving far too fast for poor George's previously iron-clad heterosexuality, and perhaps Henry's heart, as well. Yet there was no way Henry could do the right thing, not when his heart was slamming against his ribs and his cock was pulsing, teased just enough to ache for release. So he glanced down at himself, licked his lips and commanded, "Kiss me there, George."

George shuddered. The impetus to do the right thing rose up in him, but before Henry could apologize for pushing him, he leaned down so that he was eye to eye with _him_. That was when things became a bit hazy for Henry, as George opened his mouth and with no preamble at all, took the head of Henry's penis into his mouth and sucked.

Henry arched half off the bed, digging his heels into the mattress. It became very, very difficult not to rut into George's mouth, hot and slick just like a woman might be. Even the clumsy scrape of teeth over him made him shudder, just because it was _George_ who was doing this to him. George who was giving a better suckling than he could have ever _dreamed_ of. It was by far and away the most erotic experience of his life, and with each bob of George's head Henry slipped that much closer to coming right then and there.

Henry didn't realize he was moaning nonsense until George pulled off just a little and asked in that cute way of his, "Wrestling? At a time like this, Henry?"

" _Trying not to come,"_ he forced through gritted teeth. He had thought a respite and the cool air on him might make him calm down, but his end was in sight. "George, I'm close. You should use your hand now."

George looked up at him from where he kneeled between his parted legs, a curiously serene expression on his face. "No," he announced, so matter-of-factly it was out of place. "I don't believe I will, Henry."

Then he bent down and took all that he could in go. It was only about halfway down the shaft, but that was more than enough. Barely had George plunged back down again when his orgasm was upon him, the familiar tightening in his balls the only warning. He tried to call out George's name but then there was fire flooding through him, and his brain and his cock were pulsing in time. A deeper pleasure than he'd ever attained on his own swept through him, buoying the natural effects of the orgasm. Then he was gone, arcing back once more, too caught up in his climax to do anything other than breathe.

When he came to himself it was because George let him slip from his mouth, and Henry looked up just in time to see George swallow. Henry's mouth fell open. Of all that had happened in the last hour it was the image of George swallowing his seed that undid him. His brain seemed to disconnect entirely and so it was with total honesty that he said, "I love you, George. But you didn't need to do that."

George blushed, and Henry didn't know if it was because of his declaration, or the boldness of his action. "It wasn't so bad," he offered, shyly glancing down at him. "I'd tried a bit of my own before - just because I was curious, mind you! It is a bit different when there's that much of it though. A new experience to be sure. But not unpleasant, I don't think! At least, certainly not so unpleasant that I wouldn't do it again, and…"

George was rambling, and Henry knew it was because of his confession. Perhaps saying that had been too soon, but thankfully, he knew the perfect way of distracting George. Shifting up on the bed, he pulled at George's shoulders until their positions were reversed. His partner fell back, wide-eyed, but not nervous.

"I want to taste yours too, George," Henry told him, and he was gratified to see George's hazel eyes darken. "So be a good boy and come in my mouth, ok?"

George's eyes rolled back in his head as Henry leaned down over him, and then, save his gasps and cut off moans, he said nothing else for a long time.

…

…

...

Afterward they lay boneless in the dark, breathing in each other's air, reveling in each other's warmth. Henry found that he could not keep still when George was next to him, and he ran his fingers up and down his arms, his sides, his hip. For his part, George burrowed in tighter, reluctant to let go of him for even a moment.

Both were overwhelmed, and neither could stop smiling.

"Things at the station house might be awkward come Monday," George murmured sometime near dawn.

"Only if we let it be," Henry replied. "And I for one won't. You're my best friend, George. That will never change, no matter what happens with...this."

"It'll be hard keeping it a secret though," George argued. "What, with our desks being in full view of Detective Murdoch and the inspector…"

Henry grinned before pressing a kiss into George's hairline. "Then you'll just have to be a little more discreet, George."

He pouted. "You don't seem very concerned about this, Henry Higgins. It's no easy thing being the way we are, where we are. Even if our superiors like us, they'd let us go if they knew!"

Henry nuzzled him, trying to calm him down. "Then they won't find out. We can do this, George." He hesitated before admitting, "And besides. I've been a little in love with you for the past decade and managed to hide it just fine. We'll be careful, and it's going to be ok."

George hummed in agreement and for a time all was still. Then, "I suppose you're right. We may have to tell Emily, though."

Henry tensed, remembering the notes on his desk. "Why?"

George winced. "She may...suspect that I have feelings for you. She may have been a driving factor in my admitting to doing so."

Henry sighed, but it was more for show than actual exasperation. "And if we don't tell her, you think she'll drag it out of you?"

George glanced up at him before looking down, the coquettish gesture just as cute as if a girl had done it. Henry wanted held him more tightly, relishing the smooth slide of their bodies underneath the thin blanket.

"Rather than drag it out of me, per say, she's more like to kiss you come Monday."

That stopped him. "She's what?"

George's reply was flustered. "She found out! She's a tricky female, Henry, and her powers of persuasion are nigh terrifying! What else was I supposed to do?"

Henry sighed for real now. "Well, Tom knows how I feel about you and I don't see him lining up to kiss you!

" _He_ knew? Henry, I don't think that's very circumspect."

"Oh, and is telling Doctor Grace? Besides, Tom won't tell. He's family, and he's got a love of his own to hide."

George pouted again, and although Henry was marginally concerned about getting kissed come Monday, it was cute enough to melt away most of his annoyance. "Well, Emily is a bit like family, I suppose. And I'll tell her that she has to keep our secret if she ever wants to gossip about it again. She's a big fan of the gossip session, as she likes to call it. Does it all the time, as far as I can figure. At least about us." He winced. "Besides, she kind of already knew. She saw us at the hospital, you see…"

"Mmmmm," Henry hummed in response, knowing exactly what it might have looked like. He wasn't sure it was the safest thing to begin _this_ with someone in the stationhouse already knowing, but he supposed there was nothing he could do. Besides, he genuinely liked Doctor Grace, and knew that George did so as well. For now, he would just have to trust that her word was good and that she could keep a secret. "You'll just have to keep her sated with gossip sessions then, George. And _only_ gossip sessions." His grip tightened on George, possessive even now.

His partner looked up at him, innocent and trusting. "Well of course, Henry. I'm not that kind of man, you know."

Conversation petered out, left in favor of slow kisses and careful touches. Then George asked, "Henry?"

"Yes, George?"

"On the subject of family…"

"Hmmm?"

"Someday...I mean to say, when we have a weekend off sometime…" He trailed off, flustered, and Henry nipped his ear to get him moving. " _Will you come meet my aunts?"_ He finished quickly, as if he'd never say it at all if he didn't say it right then.

Henry stilled. George wanted him to meet his _family_. Well, the only proper family he'd ever known. The infamous aunts!

"Can I kiss you in front of them?"

George huffed a laugh into Henry's arm. "They might be a little shocked, that's for sure."

Giddy, Henry kissed him right then. "Yes, George. I'd love to. With or without the kisses."

"Are you sure?"

It was a big step, sure. But Henry was merely glad George was sharing it with him. So, just as the sun's light first peeked through the curtains, Henry promised, "I'll go where you go, George. Even if it's to Newfoundland." _Or hell_ , he didn't say, but thought all the same. Breaking the solemnity of the moment he offered up a boyish grin. "Besides, I'm rather excited to meet some of your infamous Aunts. Especially that Primrose. And Iris. And maybe Briony."

George gave him a look that said he knew he was being wound up, but went along with it anyway. "I'd imagine you're going to love all of them, Henry Higgins. The Detective did! And they'll surely love you. They'll take one look at your boyish grin and like you a little too much, I suspect. Personally, I'm a bit worried about Aunt Rose. She always had a preference for green-eyed suitors…"

Henry lay there listening to him, lulled by the familiar cadence of George's well-meant nonsense, more dear to him now because George was his. He lay there half-listening until sleep came for him, and even then his dreams were inundated with all that made George, George.

There were no nightmares that night. Only sweet dreams, and the promise of sweeter days to come.


End file.
